i 


E  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 


By  H.  DE  VERB  STACPOOLE 

The  Beach  of  Dreams 

The  Ghost  Girl 

The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself 

The  Gold  Trail 

Sea  Plunder 

The  Pearl  Fishers 

The  Presentation 

The  New  Optimism 

POPPYLAND 

The  Poems  of  Francois  Villon 

Translated  by 

H.  De  Vere  StacpooU 

The  Man 
Who  Found  Himself 

(Uncle  Simon) 


By 
MARGARET 

AND 

H.  DE  VERE  STACPOOLE 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

MCMXX 


Copyright,  1920, 
By  Street  &  Smith 

Copyright,  1920, 
By  John  Lane  Compant 


9CI 

CONTENTS        ^^ 
PART  I 

CHAPTER  t»AGE 

I.     Simon      .     ..      .     >     >     >     ei  9 

11.         MUDD           .          >;          .;        ;0       K         [•          [i  12 

III.  Dr.  Oppenshaw     :,.    ..^    >     f.  20 

IV.  Dr.  Oppenshaw — continued    [.  30 
V.    I  Will  Not  Be  Him    ^    ^  v  ^  34 

VI.      TiDD  AND  ReNSHAW        [.\     e      e  4^ 

VII.    The  Wallet     .,    .,    >     f.     ,  46 

PART  II 

I.    The  Soul's  Awakening    .     .  51 

11.       MOXON  AND  MuDD  ....  6o 

III.     Simon's  Old-Fashioned  Night 

IN  Town  ......  73 

PART  III 

I.    The  Last  Sovereign    .      ..     .  87 

II.     Uncle  Simon 105 

III.  The  Hundred-Pound  Note    .  121 

IV.  The  Hundred-Pound  Note — 

continued 129 

y.     The  Home  of  the  Nightin- 
gales          .         .        .N     L.       1.        >  144 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

VI.    The  Flight  of  the  Dragon- 
fly    ....      .     .     .  154 

VII.     Nine  Hundred  Pounds     .      .  164 

VIII.    Pall  Mall  Place  ....  173 

IX.     Julia 181 

PART  IV 

I.    The  Garden-Party      .      .     .  191 

11.     Horn 200 

III.  Julia — continued      .      *      .      .  209 

IV.  Horn — continued      .      .      .      .  216 
V.     TiDD  i;^rjwj  Renshaw   .      .      .  221 

VI.     What  Happened  to  Simon     .  234 

VII.     Tidd  versus  Brownlow      .      .  238 

VIII.     In  THE  Arbour.      .     .     ./    .  240 

IX.    Chapter  THE  Last  .     -;    .     •  243 


PART  I 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND 
HIMSELF 

CHAPTER  I 

SIMON 

KING  CHARLES  STREET  lies  in 
Westminster;  you  turn  a  corner  and 
find  yourself  in  Charles  Street  as  one 
might  turn  a  corner  and  find  oneself  in  History. 
The  cheap,  the  nasty,  and  the  new  vanish,  and 
UnQ  old  comfortable  houses  of  red  brick,  dark- 
ened by  weather  and  fog,  take  you  into  their 
keeping,  tell  you  that  Queen  Anne  is  not  dead, 
amuse  you  with  pictures  of  Sedan  chairs  and 
running  footmen  and  discharge  you  at  the  other 
end  into  the  twentieth  century  from  whence  you 
came. 

Simon  Pettigrew  lived  at  No.  12,  where  his 
father,  his  grandfather,  and  his  great-grand- 
father had  lived  before  him — ^lawyers  all  of 
them.  So  respected,  so  rooted  in  the  soil  of  the 
Courts  as  to  be  less  a  family  of  lawyers  than  a 
minor  English  Institution.    Divorce  your  mind 

9 


THfi:^fAi^J  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

entirely  from  all  petty  matters  of  litigation  in 
connection  with  the  Pettigrews,  .Simon  or  any 
of  his  forebears  would  have  appeared  just  as 
readily  in  their  shirt-sleeves  In  Fleet  Street  as  in 
County  or  Police  Court  for  or  against  the 
defendant;  they  were  old  family  lawyers  and 
they  had  a  fair  proportion  of  the  old  Eng- 
lish families  In  their  keeping — deed-boxes 
stuffed  with  papers,  secrets  to  make  one's  hair 
curl. 

To  the  general  public  this  great  and  potent 
firm  was  almost  unknown,  yet  Pettigrew  and 
Pettigrew  had  cut  off  enough  heirs  to  furnish 
material  for  a  dozen  Braddon  novels,  had 
smothered  numerous  screaming  tragedies  in 
high  life  and  buried  them  at  dead  of  night,  and 
all  without  a  wrinkle  on  the  brow  of  the  placid 
old  firm  that  drove  its  curricle  through  the 
reigns  of  the  Georges,  took  snuff  In  the  days  of 
Palmerston,  and  In  the  days  of  Edward  Rex  still 
refused  to  employ  the  typewriter. 

Simon,  the  last  of  the  firm,  unmarried  and 
without  near  relation,  was  at  the  time  of  this 
story  turned  sixty — a  clean-shaven,  bright-eyed, 
old-fashioned  type  of  man,  sedate,  famed  for  his 
cellar,  and  a  member  of  the  Athenaeum.  A  man 
you  never,  never  would  have  imagined  to 
possess  such  a  thing  as  a  Past.     Never  would 

10 


SIMON 

have  imagined  to  have  been  filled  with  that 
semi-diabolical,  semi-angelical  joy  of  life  which 
leads  to  the  follies  of  youth. 

All  the  same,  Simon,  between  the  ages  of 
twenty-one  and  twenty-two,  had  raked  the  town 
vigorously  more  than  viciously,  haunted  Evans' 
supper-rooms,  fallen  madly  in  love  with  an 
actress,  enjoyed  life  as  only  the  young  can  enjoy 
life  in  the  gorgeous,  dazzling,  deceitful  country 
of  Youth. 

Driving  in  hansom  cabs  was  then  a  pleasure  I 
New  clothes  and  outrageous  shirts  and  ties  a 
delight,  actresses  goddesses.  Then,  one  day  his 
actress  turned  out  an  actress,  and  the  following 
night  he  came  out  of  the  Cocoa  Tree  owing  a 
gambling  debt  of  a  thousand  pounds  that  he 
could  not  pay.  His  father  paid  on  his  promising 
to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  which  he  did.  But  his 
youth  was  checked,  his  brightness  eclipsed,  and 
arm-in-arm  with  common  sense  he  set  out  on  the 
long  journey  that  led  him  at  last  to  the  high 
position  of  a  joyless,  loveless,  desolate,  wealthy 
solicitor  of  sixty — respected,  very  much  re- 
spected. In  fact,  less  a  man  than  a  firm.  Yet 
there  still  remained  to  him  as  a  legacy  of  his 
youth,  a  very  pretty  wit  of  his  own,  an  irre- 
sponsible turn  of  talk  when  he  gave  himself 
away — as  at  dinner-parties. 

II 


CHAPTER  II 


MUDD 


MUDD  was  Simon's  factotum,  butler, 
and  minister  of  inferior  affairs. 
Mudd  was  sixty-five  and  a  bit;  he 
had  been  in  the  services  of  the  Pettigrew  family 
forty-five  years,  and  had  grown  up,  so  to  say, 
side  by  side  with  Simon.  For  the  last  twenty 
years  every  morning  Mudd  had  brought  up  his 
master's  tea,  drawn  up  his  blinds  and  set  out  his 
clothes — seven  thousand  times  or  thereabouts, 
allowing  for  holidays  and  illnesses.  He  was  a 
clean-shaven  old  man,  with  rounded  shoulders 
and  a  way  that  had  become  blunt  with  long  use ; 
he  only  "  sirred "  Simon  in  the  presence  of 
guests  and  servants,  and  had  an  open  way  of 
speaking  on  matters  of  everyday  affairs  verging 
on  the  conjugal  in  its  occasional  frankness. 

This  morning,  the  third  of  June,  Mudd,  hav- 
ing drawn  up  his  master's  blinds  and  set  out  his 
boots  and  shaving  things,  vanished  and  returned 
with  his  clothes,  brushed  and  folded,  and  a  jug 

12 


MUDD 

of  shaving  water  which  he  placed  on  the  wash- 
handstand. 

"  The  arms  will  be  out  of  this  old  coat  if  you 
go  on  wearing  it  much  longer,"  grumbled 
Mudd,  as  he  placed  the  things  on  a  chair. 
"  It's  been  in  wear  nearly  a  year  and  a  half; 
you're  heavy  on  the  left  elbow — ^it's  the  desk 
does  it." 

"  I'll  see,"  said  Simon. 

He  knew  quite  well  the  suggestion  that  lay  in 
the  tone  and  the  words  of  Mudd,  but  a  visit  to 
his  tailors  was  almost  on  a  par  with  a  visit  to  his 
dentists,  and  new  clothes  were  an  abhorrence. 
It  took  him  a  fortnight  to  get  used  to  a  new  coat, 
and  as  to  being  shabby,  why,  a  decent  shabbi- 
ness  was  part  of  his  personality  and,  vaguely 
perhaps,  of  his  pride  in  life.  He  could  afford  to 
be  shabby. 

Mudd  having  vanished,  Simon  rose  and  be- 
gan his  toilet,  tubbing  in  a  tin  bath — a  flat 
Victorian  tin  bath — and  shaving  with  a  razor 
taken  from  a  case  of  seven,  each  marked  with 
a  day  of  the  week. 

This  razor  was  marked  "  Tuesday." 

Having  carefully  dried  "  Tuesday  "  and  put 
it  back  between  "  Monday "  and  "  Wednes- 
day," Simon  closed  the  case  with  the  care  and 
precision  that  marked  all  his  actions,  finished 

13 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

dressing,  and  looked  out  of  the  window  to  sec 
what  sort  of  day  it  was. 

A  peep  of  glorious  blue  sky  caught  across  the 
roofs  of  the  opposite  houses  informed  him, 
leaving  him  unenthusiastic,  and  then,  having 
wound  up  his  watch,  he  came  downstairs  to  the 
Jacobean  dining-room,  where  tea,  toast,  frizzled 
bacon,  and  a  well-aired  Times  were  awaiting 
him. 

At  a  quarter  to  ten  precisely  Mudd  opened 
the  hall  door,  verified  the  fact  that  the  brougham 
was  in  waiting  and  informed  his  master,  helped 
him  into  his  overcoat — a  light  summer  overcoat 
— and  closed  the  carriage  door  on  him. 

A  little  after  ten  Simon  reached  Old  Ser- 
jeants' Inn  and  entered  his  office. 

Brownlow,  the  chief  clerk,  had  just  arrived, 
and  Simon,  nodding  to  him,  passed  into  his  pri- 
vate room,  where  his  letters  were  laid  out,  hung 
up  his  hat  and  coat,  and  set  to  business. 

It  was  a  sight  to  watch  his  face  as  he  read 
letter  after  letter,  laying  each  in  order  under  a 
marble  paper-weight.  One  might  have  fancied 
oneself  watching  Law  at  work,  in  seclusion  and 
unadorned  with  robes.  He  did  not  need  glasses 
— his  eyes  were  still  the  eyes  of  a  young  man. 

Having  finished  his  letters,  he  rang  for  his 
stenographer  and  began  dictating  replies,  send- 

14 


MUDD 

ing  out  now  and  again  for  Brownlow  to  consult 
upon  details;  then,  this  business  finished  and 
alone  again,  he  sat  resting  for  a  moment,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair  and  trimming  his  nails  with  the 
little  penknife  that  lay  on  the  table.  It  was  his 
custom  at  twelve  o'clock  precisely  to  have  a 
glass  of  old  brown  sherry.  It  was  a  custom  of 
the  firm;  Andrew  Pettigrew  had  done  the  same 
in  his,  day  and  had  handed  on  the  habit  to  his 
son.  If  a  favoured  client  were  present  the  client 
would  be  asked  to  have  a  glass,  and  the  bottle 
and  two  glasses  were  kept  in  the  John  Tann  safe 
in  the  corner  of  the  room.  Ye  gods !  Fancy  in 
your  modern  solicitor's  office  a  wine-bottle  in 
the  principal  safe  and  the  solicitor  asking  a 
client  to  "  have  a  drink  "  I  Yet  the  green-seal 
sherry,  famous  amidst  the  cognoscenti,  and  the 
safe  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  and  the 
other-day  figure  of  Simon,  all  were  in  keeping, 
part  of  a  unique  and  Georgian  whole,  like  the 
component  parts  of  a  Toby  jug. 

The  old  silver-faced  clock  on  the  mantel,  hav- 
ing placed  its  finger  on  midday,  set  up  its  silvery 
lisp,  and  Simon,  rousing  himself  from  his 
reverie,  rose,  drew  a  bunch  of  keys  from  his 
pocket  and  opened  the  safe. 

Then  he  stood  looking  at  what  was  to  be  seen 
inside. 

15 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

The  safe  contained  two  deed-boxes,  one  on 
top  of  the  other,  on  the  iron  fire-and-burglar<- 
proof  floor,  and  by  the  deed-boxes  stood  the 
sherry  bottle  and  the  cut-glass  satellite  wine- 
glasses, whilst  upon  the  topmost  deed-box  re- 
posed a  black  leather  wallet. 

Simon's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  wallet,  the 
thing  seemed  to  hold  him  spellbound;  one 
might  have  fancied  him  gazing  into  the  devihsh- 
diamond  eyes  of  a  coiled  snake.  The  wallet 
had  not  been  there  when  he  closed  the  safe  last; 
there  had  been  nothing  in  the  safe  but  the  boxes, 
the  bottle  and  the  glasses,  and  of  the  safe  there 
were  but  two  keys,  one  at  the  bank,  one  in  his 
pocket.  The  manager  of  Cumber's  Bank,  a 
bald-headed  magnate  with  side-whiskers,  even 
if  he  had  means  of  access  to  the  safe,  could  not 
have  been  the  author  of  this  little  trick,  simply 
because  the  key  at  the  bank  was  out  of  his  reach, 
being  safely  locked  away  in  the  Pettigrew  pri- 
vate deed-chest,  and  the  key  of  the  Pettigrew 
private  deed-chest  was  on  the  same  bunch  as 
that  now  hanging  from  the  safe  door. 

The  lock  was  unpickable. 

Yet  the  look  on  Simon's  face  was  less  that  of 
surprise  at  the  thing  found  than  terror  of  the 
thing  seen.  Brownlow's  head  on  a  charger 
could  not  have  affected  him  much  more. 

i6 


MUDD 

Then,  stretching  out  his  hand,  he  took  the 
wallet,  brought  it  to  the  table  and  opened  it. 

It  contained  bank-notes,  beautiful,  new,  crisp 
Bank  of  England  notes;  but  the  joy  of  the 
ordinary  man  in  discovering  a  great  unexpected 
wad  of  bank-notes  was  not  apparent  in  the  face 
of  Simon,  unless  beads  of  perspiration  are 
indications  of  joy.  He  turned  to  the  sherry- 
bottle,  filled  two  glasses  with  a  shaky  hand 
and  drained  them,  then  he  turned  again  to  the 
notes. 

He  sat  down  and,  pushing  the  wallet  aside, 
began  to  count  them.  Began  to  count  them 
feverishly,  as  though  the  result  of  the  tally  were 
a  matter  of  vast  importance.  There  were  four 
notes  of  a  thousand,  the  rest  were  hundreds 
and  a  few  tens.  Ten  thousand  pounds,  that  was 
the  total. 

He  put  the  notes  back  in  the  case,  buckled  it, 
jumped  up  like  a  released  spring,  flung  the  wallet 
on  top  of  the  deed-box  and  closed  the  safe  with 
a  snap. 

Then  he  stood,  hands  in  pockets,  examining 
the  pattern  of  the  Turkey  carpet. 

At  this  moment  a  knock  came  to  the  door  and 
a  junior  clerk  appeared. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  want?"  asked 
Simon. 

17 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

The  clerk  stated  his  case.  A  Mr.  Smith  had 
called,  craving  an  interview. 

"Ask  Mr.  Brownlow  to  see  him,"  replied 
Simon ;  "  but  ask  Mr.  Brownlow  to  step  in  here 
first." 

In  a  moment  Brownlow  appeared. 

**  Brownlow,"  said  Simon,  "  look  up  Dr. 
Oppenshaw's  telephone  number  and  ask  him 
can  he  give  me  ten  minutes'  interview  before 
luncheon.  Say  it  is  most  urgently  important. 
iioA,  Harley  Street,  is  his  address — and,  see 
here,  have  a  taxicab  called — that's  all." 

Whilst  Brownlow  was  away  on  his  mission 
Simon  put  on  his  overcoat,  put  on  his  hat,  blew 
his  nose  lustily  in  the  red  bandanna  handker- 
chief that  was  part  of  his  personality,  opened 
the  safe  and  took  another  peep  at  the  wallet,  as 
if  to  make  sure  that  the  fairy  hand  that  had 
placed  it  there  had  not  spirited  it  away  again, 
and  was  in  the  act  of  locking  the  safe  when  the 
senior  clerk  entered  to  say  that  Dr.  Oppenshaw. 
would  be  visible  at  a  quarter  to  one,  and  that 
Morgan,  the  office-boy,  had  procured  the  cab. 

Brownlow,  though  he  managed  to  conceal  his 
feelings,  was  disturbed  by  the  manner  of  his 
chief  and  by  the  telephone  message  to  the 
doctor;  by  the  whole  affair,  in  fact,  for  Simon 
aever  left  the  office  till  the  stroke  of  one,  when 

i8 


MUDD 

the  brougham  called  to  take  him  to  Simpson's 
in  the  Strand  for  luncheon. 

Was  Simon  ill?  He  ventured  to  put  the 
question  and  nearly  had  his  head  snapped  off. 

Ill !  No,  of  course  he  wasn't  111,  never  better 
In  his  life;  what  on  earth  put  that  idea  into 
Brownlow's  head? 

Then  the  testy  one  departed  in  search  of  the 
taxi,  and  Brownlow  returned  to  his  room  and 
his  duties. 


19 


CHAPTER  III 


DR.  OPPENSHAW 


JUST  as  rabbit-burrows  on  the  Arizona 
plain  give  shelter  to  a  mixed  tenantry,  a 
rabbit,  an  owl,  and  a  snake  often  occupy- 
ing the  same  hole,  so  the  Harley  Street  houses 
are,  as  a  rule,  divided  up  between  dentists,  ocu- 
lists, surgeons,  and  physicians,  so  that  under  the 
same  roof  you  can,  if  you  are  so  minded,  have 
your'teeth  extracted,  your  lungs  percussed,  your 
eyes  put  right,  and  your  surgical  ailment  seen  to, 
each  on  a  different  floor.  Number  iioA,  Har- 
ley Street,  however,  contained  only  one  occupant 
— Dr.  Otto  Oppenshaw.  Dr.  Oppenshaw  had 
no  need  of  a  sharer  in  his  rent  burdens ;  a  neu- 
rologist in  the  most  nerve-ridden  city  of  Europe, 
he  was  making  an  income  of  some  twenty-five 
thousand  a  year. 

People  were  turned  away  from  his  door  as 
from  a  theatre  where  a  wildly  successful  play  is 
running.  The  main  craving  of  fashionable 
neurotics,  a  craving  beyond,  though  often 
inspired  by  the  craving  for,  the  opium  alkaloids 

20 


DR.  OPPENSHAW 

and  cocaine,  was  to  see  Oppenshaw.  Yet  he 
was  not  much  to  see:  a  little  bald  man  like  a 
turnip,  with  the  manners  of  a  butcher,  and  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles. 

Dukes  inspired  with  the  desire  to  see  Oppen- 
shaw had  to  wait  their*turn  often  behind  trades- 
men, yet  he  was  at  Simon  Pettigrew's  command. 
Simon  was  his  sometime  lawyer.  It  was  half- 
past  twelve,  or  maybe  a  bit  more,  when  the  taxi 
drew  up  at  IIOA  and  the  lawyer,  after  a  sharp 
legal  discussion  over  tuppence  with  the  driver, 
mounted  the  steps  and  pressed  the  bell. 

The  door  was  at  once  opened  by  a  pale-faced 
man  in  black,  who  conducted  the  visitor  to  the 
waiting-room,  where  a  single  patient  was  seated 
reading  a  last  year's  volume  of  Punch  and  not 
seeming  to  realise  the  jokes. 

This  person  was  called  out  presently,  and 
then  came  Simon's  turn. 

Oppenshaw  got  up  from  his  desk  and  came 
forward  to  meet  him. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  bother  you,"  said  Simon,  when 
they  had  exchanged  greetings.  ''It's  a  difficult 
matter  I  have  come  to  consult.you  about,  and  an 
important  one,  else  I  would  not  have  cut  into 
your  time  like  this." 

"  State  your  case,"  said  the  other  jovially, 
retaking  his  seat  and  pointing  out  a  chair. 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  That's  the  devil  of  it,"  replied  Simon;  "  it's 
a  case  that  lies  out  of  the  jurisdiction  of  common 
sense  and  common  knowledge.  Look  at  me. 
Do  I  look  as  though  I  were  a  dreamer  or 
creature  of  fancies?  " 

"  You  certainly  don't,"  said  Oppenshaw 
frankly. 

"  Yet  what  I  have  to  tell  you  disgusts  me — 
will  disgust  you." 

"  I'm  used  to  that,  I'm  used  to  that,"  said 
the  other.  "  Nothing  you  can  say  will  alarm, 
disgust,  or  leave  me  incredulous." 

"  Well,  here  it  is,"  said  the  patient,  plunging 
into  the  matter  as  a  man  into  cold  water.  "  A 
year  ago — a  year  and  four  weeks,  for  it  was  on 
the  third  of  May — I  went  down  to  my  office  one 
morning  and  transacted  my  business  as  usual. 
At  twelve  o'clock  I — er — had  occasion  to  open 
my  safe,  a  safe  of  which  I  alone  possess 
the  key.  On  the  top  of  a  deed-box  in  that  safe 
I  found  a  brown-paper  parcel  tied  with  red 
tape.  I  was  astonished,  for  I  had  put  no  parcel 
in." 

"  You  might  have  forgotten,"  said  Oppen- 
shaw. 

"  I  never  forget,"  replied  Simoa. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Oppenshaw. 

"  I  opened  the  parcel.  It  contained  bank- 
22 


DR.  OPPENSHAW 

notes  to  the  amount  of  ten  thousand 
pounds." 

"  H'm— h'm." 

**  Ten  thousand  pounds.  I  could  not  believe 
my  eyes.  I  sent  for  my  chief  clerk,  Brownlow. 
He  could  not  believe  his  eyes,  and  I  fear  he  even 
doubted  the  statement  of  the  whole  case.  Now 
listen.  I  determined  to  go  to  my  bank.  Cum- 
ber's, and  make  enquiries  as  to  my  balance, 
ridden  by  the  seemingly  absurd  idea  that  I 
myself  had  drawn  this  amount  and  forgotten 
the  fact,  I  may  say  at  once  this  was  the  truth, 
I  had  drawn  it,  unknown  to  myself.  Well, 
that  was  the  third  of  May,  and  when  and  where 
do  you  think  I  found  myself  next?" 

"  Go  on,"  said  Oppenshaw. 

"  In  Paris  on  the  third  of  June." 

"  Ah— ah." 

"  Everything  between  those  dates  was  a 
blank." 

"  Your  case  is  not  absolutely  common,"  said 
Oppenshaw.  "  Rare,  but  not  without  precedent 
— read  the  papers.  Why,  only  yesterday  a 
woman  was  found  on  a  seat  at  Brighton.  She 
had  left  London  a  week  ago;  the  interval  was 
to  her  a  complete  blank,  yet  she  had  travelled 
about  and  lived  like  an  ordinary  mortal  in 
possession  of  her  ordinary  senses." 

23 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  Wait  a  bit,''  said  Simon.  *'I  was  not  found 
on  a  seat  in  Paris.  I  found  myself  in  a 
gorgeously-furnished  sitting-room  of  the  Bristol 
Hotel,  and  I  was  dressed  in  clothes  that  might 
have  suited  a  young  man — a  fool  of  twenty,  and 
I  very  soon  found  that  I  had  been  acting — act- 
ing like  a  fool.  Of  the  ten  thousand  only  five 
thousand  remained." 

"  Five  thousand  in  a  month,"  said  Oppen- 
shaw.  "  Well,  you  paid  the  price  of  your  tem- 
porary youth.  Tell  me,"  said  he,  "  and  be  quite 
frank.  What  were  you  like  when  you  were 
young?    I  mean  in  mind  and  conduct?  " 

Simon  moved  wearily. 

**  I  was  a  fool  for  a  while,"  said  he.  "  Then  I 
suddenly  checked  myself  and  became  sensible." 

Oppenshaw  rapped  twice  with  his  fingers  on 
his  desk  as  if  in  triumph^over  his  own  perception. 

"  That  clears  matters,"  said  he.  "  You  were 
undoubtedly  suffering  from  Lethmann's  dis- 
ease." 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Simon.  "What's 
that?" 

"  It's  a  form  of  aberration — ^most  interesting. 
You  have  heard  of  double  personaHties,  of 
which  a  great  deal  of  nonsense  has  been  written? 
Well,  Lethmann's  disease  is  just  this:  a  man, 
say,  of  twenty,  suddenly  checked  in  the  course 

24 


DR.  OPPENSHAW 

of  his  youth,  becomes  practically  another  per- 
son. You,  for  instance,  became,  or  fancied  you 
became,  another  person ;  you  suddenly  *  checked 
yourself  and  became  sensible,'  as  you  put  it,  but 
YOU  did  not  destroy  that  old  foolish  self.  Noth- 
ing is  destructible  in  mind  as  long  as  the  brain- 
tissue  is  normal;  you  put  it  in  prison,  and  after 
the  lapse  of  many  years,  owing,  perhaps,  to 
some  slight  declension  in  brain  power,  it  broke 
out,  dominated  you,  and  lived  again.  Youth 
must  be  served. 

"  It  would  have  been  perhaps  better  for  you 
to  have  let  your  youth  run  its  course  and  expend 
itself  normally.  You  have  paid  the  price  of 
your  own  will-power.  I  am  very  much  in- 
terested in  this.  Tell  me  as  faithfully  as  you 
can  what  you  did  in  Paris,  or  at  least  what  you 
gathered  that  you  did.  When  you  came  to,  did 
you  remember  your  actions  during  the  month  of 
aberration?  " 

"  When  I  came  to,'*  said  Simon,  speaking 
almost  with  his  teeth  set,  "  I  was  like  a  person 
stunned.  Then  I  remembered,  bit  by  bit,  what 
I  had  been  doing,  but  it  was  like  vaguely  re- 
membering what  another  man  had  been  doing." 

"  Right,"  said  Oppenshaw,  "  that  tallies  with 
your  case.    Go  on." 

"  I  had  been  doing  foolish  things.  I  had  been 
25 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

living,  so  to  say,  on  the  surface  of  life,  without  a 
thought  of  anything  but  pleasure,  without  the 
slightest  recollection  of  myself  as  I  am.  I  had 
been  doing  things  that  I  might  have  done  at 
twenty — extravagant  follies;  yet  I  believe  not 
any  really  vicious  acts.  I  had  been  drinking 
too  much  champagne,  for  one  thing,  and  there 
were  several  ladies.  .  .  .  Good  Lord !  Oppen- 
shaw,  I'd  blush  to  confess  it  to  anyone  else,  but 
I'd  been  going  on  like  a  boy,  picking  flowers  at 
Fontainebleau — writing  verses  to  one  of  these 
hussies.  I  could  remember  that.  Me ! — ^verses 
about  blue  skies  and  streams  and  things !  Me ! 
It's  horrible!'* 

"  Used  you  to  write  verses  when  you  were 
young?  " 

*'  Yes,"  said  Simon,  "  I  believe  I  used  to  make 
that  sort  of  fool  of  myself." 

"  You  were  full  of  the  joy  of  living?  " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  You  see,  everything  tallies.  Yes,  without 
any  manner  of  doubt  it's  a  case  of  Lethmann's 
disease  rounded  and  complete.  Now,  tell  me, 
when  you  came  to,  you  could  remember  all  your 
actions  in  Paris ;  how  far  back  did  that  memory 
go?" 

"  I  could  remember  dimly  right  back  to  when 
I  was  leaving  the  office  in  Old  Serjeants'  Inn 
26 


DR.  OPPENSHAW 

with  the  bundle  of  bank-notes  to  go  to  the  bank. 
Then  all  of  a  sudden  it  would  seem  I  forgot  all 
about  my  past  and  became,  as  you  insist,  myself 
at  twenty.  I  went  to  the  Charing  Cross  Hotel, 
where  I  had  already,  it  would  seem,  hired  rooms 
for  myself,  and  where  I  had  directed  new  clothes 
to  be  sent,  and  then  I  went  to  Paris." 

"  This  is  most  important,"  said  Oppenshaw. 
*'  You  had  already  hired  rooms  for  yourself  and 
ordered  clothes.  Those  acts  must  have  been 
committed  before  the  great  change  came  on  you, 
and  of  course  without  your  knowledge." 

"  They  must.  Also  the  act  of  drawing  the 
ten  thousand  from  the  bank." 

"  The  concealed  other  self  must  have  been 
working  like  a  mole  in  the  dark  for  some  days 
at  least,"  said  Oppenshaw,  "  utterly  without 
your  knowledge." 

"  Utterly." 

"  Then  having  prepared  in  a  vague  sort  of 
way  a  means  for  enjoying  itself.  It  burst  out;  It 
was  like  a  butterfly  coming  out  of  a  chrysalis — 
excuse  the  simile." 

"  Something  like  that." 

"  So  far  so  good.  Well,  now,  when  you  came 
to  your  old  self  in  Paris,  what  did  you  do  ?" 

"  I  came  back  to  London,  of  course." 

"  But  surely  your  sudden  disappearance  must 
27 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

have  caused  alarm?  Why,  it  would  have  been 
in  the  papers." 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  Simon  grimly.  "  My  other 
self,  as  you  call  it,  had  prepared  for  that.  It 
seems  the  night  before  the  thing  happened  I  told 
Mudd — ^you  know  Mudd,  the  butler — that  I 
might  be  called  away  suddenly  and  be  absent  a 
considerable  time,  that  I  would  buy  clothes  and 
nightshirts  and  things,  if  that  was  so,  at  the 
place  I  was  going  to,  and  that  he  was  to  tell  the 
office  if  I  went  away,  and  to  tell  Brownlow  to 
carry  on.     Infernal,  isn't  it?" 

"  Infernally  ingenious,"  said  Oppenshaw; 
"  but  if  you  had  ever  studied  the  subject  of 
duplex  personality  you  would  not  be  surprised. 
I  have  seen  a  young  religious  girl  make  most 
complex  preparations  for  a  journey  as  a  mis- 
sionary  to  China,  utterly  without  her  own 
knowledge.  We  caught  her  at  the  station,  fortu- 
nately, just  in  time — but  how  did  you  find  out 
that  you  gave  Mudd  those  Instructions  ?  " 

"  The  whole  way  back  from  Paris,"  said 
Simon,  "  I  was  preparing  to  meet  all  sorts  of 
enquiry  and  bother  as  to  my  absence.  Then, 
when  I  reached  home,  Mudd  did  not  seem  to 
think  it  out  of  the  way;  he  told  me  he  had  fol- 
lowed my  directions  and  notified  the  office  when 
I  did  not  return,  and  told  them  that  I  might  be 
28 


DR.  OPPENSHAW 

some  time  away.  Then  I  got  out  of  him  what  I 
had  said  about  the  clothes  and  so  on." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Oppenshaw  suddenly,  "  why 
did  you  come  to  me  to-day  to  tell  me  all  this?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Simon,  "  on  opening  my  safe 
this  morning  I  found  in  a  wallet  on  the  top  of 
the  deed-box  another  bundle  of  notes  for  exactly 
the  same  amount." 


29 


CHAPTER  ly 

DR.  OPPENSHAW — continued 

OPPENSHAW  whistled. 
"  A  bundle  of  notes  amounting  to 
ten  thousand  pounds,'*   said   Simon; 
"  exactly  the  same  amount." 

Oppenshaw  looked  at  his  nails  carefully 
without  speaking.     Simon  watched  him. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Simon,  "  is  this  confounded 
disease,  or  whatever  it  is,  recurrent?  " 

"  You  mean  is  there  any  fear  that  your  old 
self — or,  rather,  your  young  self — is  preparing 
for  another  outbreak?  " 

"  Precisely." 

"  That  this  drawing  of  another  ten  thousand, 
unknown  to  yourself,  is  only  the  first  act  in  a 
similar  drama,  or  shall  we  say  comedy?  " 

''  Yes." 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  for  certain,  for  the  dis- 
ease, or  the  ailment,  if  you  like  the  term  better, 
has  not  been  long  enough  before  the  eyes  of 
science  to  make  quite  definite  statements.  But, 
as  far  as  I  can  judge,  I'm  afraid  it  is." 

30 


DR.  OPPENSHAW— continued 

Simon  swallowed. 

*'  Leaving  aside  the  fact  of  the  similarity  of 
^he  action  and  the  amount  of  money  drawn,  wc 
have  the  similarity  in  time.  It  is  true  that  last 
year  it  was  in  May  you  started  the  business.'* 

"  The  third  of  May,  a  month's  difference," 
said  Simon. 

"  True,  but  it  is  less  a  question  of  a  month 
more  or  less  than  of  season.  Last  early  May 
and  April  end  were  abnormally  fine.  I  remem- 
ber that,  for  I  had  to  go  to  Switzerland.  This 
May  has  been  wretched.  Then  during  the  last 
week  we  have  had  this  burst  of  splendid  weather 
— weather  that  makes  me  feel  young  again." 

"  It  doesn't  me,"  said  Simon. 

"  No,  but  it  has  evidently — at  least  probably 
— had  that  effect  on  your  other  *  me.'  The 
something  that  urges  the  return  of  the  swallow 
has  acted  in  your  subconsciousness  with  the 
coming  of  springlike  weather  just  as  last  year." 

"  Damn  swallows  I  "  cried  Simon,  rising  up 
and  pacing  the  floor.  "  Suppose  this  thing  lets 
me  in  for  another  five  thousand,  and  Lord 
knows  what  else?  Oppenshaw,"  wheeling  sud- 
denly, "  is  nothing  to  be  done  ?  How  can  I  stop 
it?" 

"  Well,"  said  Oppenshaw,  "  quite  frankly,  I 
think  that  the  best  means  is  the  exercise  of  your 

3X 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

own  will-power.  You  might,  of  course,  take  the 
notes  back  to  the  bank  and  instruct  them  not  to 
allow  you  to  draw  any  more  money  for,  say,  a 
month — ^but  that  would  be  unpleasant.'* 

"  Impossible !  " 

"  You  might,  again,  put  yourself  under  re- 
straint,   r could  do  that  for  you." 

"  Put  myself  in  a  mad-house?  " 

"  No,  no — a  nursing  home." 

"Never!" 

"  You  might,  again.  Instruct  your  butler  to 
follow  you  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  keep  his  eye 
on  you  for  the  next  month." 

"Muddl" 

"Yes." 

"  Sooner  die.  Never  could  look  him  in  the 
face  again." 

"  Have  you  any  near  and  trustworthy  rela- 
tives?" 

"  Only  a  nephew,  utterly  wild  and  untrust- 
worthy; a  chap  I've  cut  out  of  my  will  and  had 
tp  stop  his  allowance." 

"  And  you  are  not  married — that's  a  pity.  A 
wife " 

"  Hang  wives !  "  cried  Simon.  "  What's  the 
good  of  talking  of  the  impracticable?  " 

"  Well,  there  we  are,"  continued  Oppenshaw, 
perfectly  unruffled.     "  I  have  suggested  every- 

32 


DR.  OFFENSUAW— continued 

thing;  there  is  only  will  left.  The  greatest 
friend  of  a  man  is  his  will.  Determine  in  your 
own  mind  that  this  change  will  not  take  place. 
I  believe  that  will  be  your  safest  plan.  The 
others  I  have  suggested  are  all  impossible  to 
your  sense  of  amour  propre,  and,  besides  that, 
there  is  the  grave  objection  that  they  savour  of 
force.  It  might  have  bad  consequences  to  use 
force  to  what  would  be  practically  the  subcon- 
scious mind.  Your  will  is  quite  different.  Will 
can  never  unbalance  mind.  In  fact,  as  a  famous 
English  neurologist  has  put  it,  *  Most  cases  of 
mental  disturbances  are  due  to  an  inflated  ego — 
a  deflated  will.'  " 

"  Oh,  my  will's  all  right,"  said  Simon. 

"  Well,  then,  use-it  and  don't  trouble.  Say  to 
yourself  definitely — *  This  shall  not  be.'  " 

"  And  that  money  in  the  safe?  " 

"  Leave  it  there ;  dare  your  other  self  to  take 
it.  To  remove  it  and  place  it  in  other  keeping 
would  be  a  weakness." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Simon.  "  I  grasp  what  you 
mean."  He  took  out  his  purse  and  laid  fivQ 
guineas  on  the  desk.  Oppenshaw  did  not  seem 
to  see  the  money.  He  accompanied  his  patient 
to  the  door.     It  was  half-past  one. 


33 


CHAPTER  y 

I  WILL  NOT  BE   HIM 

OUT  In  Harley  Street  Simon  walked 
hurriedly  and  without  goal.  It  was 
getting  past  luncheon-time ;  he  had  for- 
gotten the  fact. 

Oppenshaw  was  one  of  those  men  who  carry 
conviction.  You  will  have  noticed  in  life  that 
quite  a  lot  of  people  don't  convince;  they  may 
be  good,  they  may  be  earnest,  but  they  don't 
convince.  Selling  a  full-grown  dog  in  the 
world's  market,  they  have  little  chance  against 
a  convincing  competitor  selling  a  pup. 

Oppenshaw's  twenty-five  thousand  a  year 
came,  in  good  part,  from  this  quality.  He  had 
convinced  Simon  of  the  fact  that  Inside  Simon 
lay  Youth  that  was  once  Simon — Youth  that, 
though  unseen  and  unknown  to  the  world,  could 
still  dominate  its  container  even  to  the  extent  of 
meddling  with  his  bank  balance. 

That  for  Simon  was  at  this  moment  the  main 
fact  in  the  situation.  It  was  sufficiently  bad 
34 


I 


I  WILL  NOT  BE  HIM 

that  this  old  imperious  youth  should  be  able  to 
make  him  act  foolishly,  but  that  was  nothing  to 
the  fact  that  it  was  able  to  tamper  with  his 
money. 

Simon's  money  was  the  solid  ground  under  his 
feet,  and  he  recognised,  now,  that  it  was  every- 
thing to  him — everything.  He  could  have 
sacrificed  at  a  pinch  all  else;  he  could  have 
sacrificed  Mudd,  his  furniture,  his  old  prints,  his 
cellar,  but  his  money  was  even  more  than  the 
ground  under  his  feet — it  was  himself. 

Suppose  this  disease  were  to  recur  often  and 
at  shorter  intervals,  or  become  chronic? 

He  calculated  furiously  that  at  the  rate  of  five 
thousand  a  month  his  fortune  would  last, 
roughly,  a  year  and  a  half.  He  saw  his  securi- 
ties being  sold,  his  property  in  Hertfordshire, 
his  furniture,  his  pictures. 

He  had  a  remedy,  it  is  true:  to  put  himself 
under  restraint.    A  nice  sort  of  remedy! 

In  Weymouth  Street,  the  home  of  nursing 
homes  and  doctors,  into  which  he  had  wandered, 
his  mind  tension  became  so  acute  that  the 
impulse  came  on  him  to  hurry  back  to  Oppen- 
shaw  in  the  vague  hope  that  something  else 
might  be  done — some  operation,  for  instance* 
He  knew  little  of  medicine  and  less  of  surgery, 
but  he  had  heard  of  people  being  operated  on 
35 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

for  brain  mischief,  and  he  remembered,  now, 
having  read  of  an  old  admiral  who  had  lost  con- 
sciousness owing  to  an  injury  at  the  battle  of  the 
Nile,  and  had  remained  unconscious  till  an  op- 
eration cured  him  some  months  later. 

He  was  saved  from  bothering  Oppenshaw 
again  by  an  instinctive  feeling  that  it  would  be 
useless.  You  cannot  extract  the  follies  of  youth 
by  an  operation.  He  went  on  trending  towards 
Oxford  Street,  but  still  without  object. 

What  made  his  position  worse  was  his  Instinct 
as  a  solicitor.  For  forty  years  he  had,  amongst 
other  work,  been  engaged  in  tying  up  Youth  so 
that  it  could  not  get  at  Property,  extracting 
Youth  from  pitfalls  it  had  tumbled  into  whilst 
carrying  Property  In  its  arms.  The  very  words 
"  youth  "  and  "  property,"  innocent  in  them- 
selves, were  obnoxious  to  Simon  when  combined. 
He  had  always  held  that  no  young  man  ought 
to  Inherit  till  he  was  twenty-five,  and,  heaven 
knows,  that  opinion  had  a  firm  basis  in  ex- 
perience. He  had  always  In  law  looked  askance 
on  youth  and  its  doings.  In  practice  he  had  been 
tolerant  enough,  though,  indeed,  youth  comes 
little  in  the  way  of  a  hard-working  and  prom- 
inent elderly  solicitor,  but  in  law,  and  he  was 
mostly  law,  he  had  little  tolerance,  no  respect. 

And  here  was  youth  with  his  property  in  Its 

36 


I  WILL  NOT  BE  HIM 

arms,  or  what  was,  perhaps,  even  worse,  the 
imminent  dread  of  that  unholy  alliance. 

In  Oxford  Street  he  stopped  at  a  shop  win- 
dow and  inspected  ladies'  blouses — that  was  his 
condition  of  mind;  jewellers'  windows  held  him, 
not  by  the  excellence  of  their  goods,  but  by  the 
necessity  to  turn  his  back  to  the  crowd  and 
think — think — think. 

His  mind  was  in  a  turmoil,  and  he  could  no 
more  control  his  thoughts  than  he  could  have 
controlled  the  traffic;  the  wares  of  the  mer- 
chants exposed  to  view  seemed  to  do  the 
thinking.  Gold  alberts  only  held  his  eye  to 
explain  that  his  lands  in  Hertfordshire  flung  on 
the  market  in  the  present  state  of  agriculture 
would  not  fetch  a  tithe  of  their  worth,  but  that 
his  green-seal  sherry  and  all  the  treasures  of  his 
cellar  would  bring  half  the  West  End  to  their 
sale — Old  Pettigrew's  cellar. 

Other  things  in  other  shops  spoke  to  him  in  a 
like  manner,  and  then  he  found  himself  at 
Oxford  Circus  with  the  sudden  consciousness 
that  this  was  not  fighting  Lethmann's  disease  by 
the  exercise  of  will.  His  will  had,  in  fact,  been 
in  abeyance,  his  imagination  master  of  him. 

But  a  refuge  in  the  middle  of  Oxford  Circus 
was  not  exactly  the  place  for  the  re-equipment 
of  will-power;  the  effort  nearly  cost  him  his  life 
37 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

from  a  motor-lorry  as  he  crossed.  Then,  when 
he  had  reached  the  other  side  and  could  resum^e 
work  free  of  danger,  he  found  that  he  had  ap- 
parently no  will  to  re-equip. 

He  found  himself  repeating  over  and  over 
the  words,  *'  I  will  not  be  him — I  will  not  be 
him."  That  seemed  all  right  for  a  moment, 
and  he  would  have  satisfied  himself  that  his 
will-power  was  working  splendidly,  had  not  a 
sudden  cold  doubt  sprung  up  in  his  heart  as  to 
whether  the  proper  formula  ought  not  to  be, 
**  He  will  not  be  me.' 

Ah !  that  was  the  crux  of  the  business.  It  was 
quite  easy  to  determine,  *'  I  will  not  be  him," 
but  when  it  came  to  the  declaration,  *'  He  will 
not  be  me,"  Simon  found  that  he  had  no  will- 
power in  the  matter.  It  was  quite  easy  to 
determine  that  he  would  not  do  foolish  things, 
impossible  to  determine  that  another  should  not 
do  them. 

Then  it  came  to  his  mind  like  a  flash  that  the 
other  one  was  not  a  personality  so  much  as  a 
combination  of  foolish  actions,  old  desires,  and 
alien  motives  let  loose  on  the  world  without 
governance. 

He  turned  mechanically  into  Verreys*  and  had 
a  chop.    At  Simpson's  in  the  Strand  he  alwaysN 
had  a  chop  or  a  cut  from  the  saddle,  or  a  cut 

38 


i 


I  WILL  NOT  BE  HIM 

from  the  sirloin — like  the  razors,  the  daily 
menus  following  one  another  in  rotation.  This 
was  a  chop  day,  just  as  it  was  a  "  Tuesday  "  day, 
and  habit  prevented  him  from  forgetting  the 
fact.  The  chop  and  a  half-bottle  of  St.  Estephe 
made  him  feel  a  stronger  man.  He  suddenly 
became  cheerful  and  valiant. 

"  If  worst  comes  to  worst,"  said  he  to  him- 
self, "  I  can  put  myself  under  restraint;  nobody 
need  know.  Yes,  begad!  I  have  always  that. 
I  can  put  myself  under  surveillance.  Why,  dash 
it !  I  can  tie  up  my  money  so  that  I  can't  touch 
it;  it's  quite  easy." 

The  chop  and  St.  Estephe,  hauling  him  out  of 
the  slough  of  despond,  told  him  this.  It  was  a 
sure  way  of  escape  from  losing  his  money.  He 
had  furiously  rejected  the  idea  at  Oppenshaw's, 
but  at  Oppenshaw's  his  Property  had  not  had 
time  to  talk  fully  to  him,  but  In  that  awful 
journey  from  Harley  Street  to  Verreys'  he  had 
walked  arm-in-arm  with  his  Property  chattering 
on  one  side  and  dumb  Bankruptcy  on  the  other. 

Restraint  would  have  been  almost  as  odious 
as  bankruptcy  to  him,  yet  now,  as  a  sure  means 
of  escape  from  the  other,  it  seemed  almost  a 
pleasant  prospect. 

He  left  Verreys'  and  walked  along  feeling 
brighter  and  better.  He  turned  into  the 
39 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

Athenaeum.  It  was  turnlng-in  time  at  the 
Athenaeum,  and  the  big  armchairs  were  full  of 
somnolent  ones,  bald  heads  drooping,  whiskers 
hidden  by  the  sheets  of  the  Times,  Here  he 
met  Sir  Ralph  Puttick,  Hon.  Physician  to  His 
Majesty,  stiff,  urbane,  stately,  seeming  ever  sup- 
ported on  either  side  by  a  lion  and  a  unicorn. 

Sir  Ralph  and  Simon  were  known  one  to  the 
other  and  had  much  in  common,  including  anti- 
socialism. 

In  armchairs,  they  talked  of  Lloyd  George — 
at  least,  Sir  Ralph  did,  Simon  had  other  consid- 
erations on  his  mind.  Leaning  forward  in  his 
chair,  he  suddenly  asked,  apropos  of  nothing: 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  disease  called  Leth- 
mann's  disease?  " 

Now  Sir  Ralph  was  Chest  and  Heart,  nothing 
else.  He  was  also  nettled  at  "  shop  "  being 
suddenly  thrust  upon  him  by  a  damned  attorney, 
for  Simon  was  *'  Simon  Pettigrew,  quite  a 
character,  one  of  our  old-fashioned,  first-class 
English  lawyers,*'  when  Sir  Ralph  was  In  a 
good  temper  and  happened  to  consider  Simon; 
nettled,  Simon  was  a  "  damned  attorney." 

"  Never,"  said  Sir  Ralph.  "  What  disease 
did  you  say?  " 

"  Lethmann's.    It's  a  new  disease,  it  seems." 

Another  horrid  blunder,  as  though  the  lion 
40 


I  WILL  NOT  BE  HIM 

and  unicorn  man  were  only  acquainted  with  old 
diseases — out  of  date,  in  fact. 

"  Never,"  replied  the  other.  "  There's  no 
such  thing.    Who  told  you  about  it?  " 

"  I  read  about  it/'  said  Simon.  He  tried  to 
give  a  picture  of  the  symptoms  and  failed  to 
convince,  but  he  managed  to  irritate.  The  semi- 
royal  one  listened  with  a  specious  appearance  of 
attention  and  even  interest;  then,  the  other  hav- 
ing finished,  he  opened  his  batteries. 

Simon  le'ft  the  Club  with  the  feeling  that  he 
had  been  put  upon  the  stand  beside  charlatans, 
quacks,  and  the  purveyor  of  crank  theories; 
also  that  he  had  been  snubbed. 


41 


CHAPTER  VI 


TIDD  AND  RENSHAW 


DID  he  mind ?  Not  a  bit ;  he  enjoyed  it. 
If  Sir  Ralph  had  kicked  him  out  of 
the  Athenaeum  for  airing  false  science 
there  he  would  have  enjoyed  it.  He  would 
have  enjoyed  anything  casting  odium  and  dis- 
credit on  the  theory  of  double  personaHty  in  the 
form  of  Lethmann's  disease. 

For  now  his  hunted  soul,  that  had  taken  mo- 
mentary refuge  in  the  thought  of  nursing  homes 
and  restraint,  had  left  that  burrow  and  was  tak- 
ing refuge  in  doubt. 

The  whole  thing  was  surely  absurd.  The 
affair  of  last  year  must  have  been  a  temporary 
aberration  due  to  overwork,  despite  the  fact 
that  he  had,  indeed,  drawn  another  ten  thousand 
unconsciously  from  the  bank;  it  was  patently 
foolish  to  think  that  a  man  could  be  under  the 
dominion  of  a  story-book  disease.  He  had  read 
Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde — that  wild  fiction! 
Why,  if  this  thing  were  true,  it  would  be  a  fiction 
just  as  wild.  Oceans  of  comfort  suddenly  came 
42 


TIDD  AND  RENSHAW 

to  him.  It  gave  him  a  new  grip  on  the  situation, 
pointing  out  that  the  whole  of  this  business  as 
suggested  by  Oppenshaw  was  on  a  level  with  a 
"  silly  sensational  story,"  that  is  to  say  with  the 
impossible — therefore  impossible. 

He  made  one  grave  mistake — the  mistake  of 
reckoning  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  as  a  "  silly 
sensational  story." 

Anyhow,  he  got  comfort  from  what  he  con- 
sidered fact,  and  at  dinner  that  night  he  was  so 
restored  that  he  was  able  to  grumble  because 
the  mutton  "  was  done  to  rags." 

He  dined  alone. 

As  he  had  not  returned  to  the  office  in  the 
afternoon,  Brownlow  had  sent  some  papers 
relative  to  a  law  case  then  pending  for  his 
consideration.  It  often  happened  that  Simon 
took  business  home  with  him,  or,  if  he  were  not 
able  to  attend  at  the  office,  important  papers 
would  be  sent.to  his  house. 

To-night,  according  to  custom,  he  retired  to 
his  library,  drank  his  coffee,  spread  open  the 
documents,  and,  comfortably  seated  in  a  huge 
leathern  armchair,  plunged  into  work. 

It  was  a  difficult  case,  the  case  of  Tidd  v. 

Renshaw,  complicated  by  all  sorts  of  cross-issues 

and  currents.    In  its  dry  legal  jargon  it  involved 

the  title  to  London  house  property,  the  credit 

43 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

of  a  woman,  the  happiness  of  a  family,  and  a 
few  other  things,  all  absolutely  of  no  account  to 
Simon,  engaged  on  the  law  of  the  case,  and  to 
whom  the  human  beings  involved  were  simply  as 
the  chessmen  in  the  hands  of  the  player;  and 
necessarily,  for  a  lawyer  who  allowed  human 
considerations  to  colour  his  view  would  be  an 
untrustwol-thy  lawyer. 

At  ten  o'clock  Simon,  suddenly  laying  the 
documents  on  the  floor  beside  him,  rose  up, 
rang  the  bell,  and  stood  on  the  hearthrug  with 
his  hands  linked  behind  him. 

Mudd  appeared. 

"  Mudd,"  said  Simon, ."  I  may  be  called  away 
to-morrow  and  be  absent  some  time.  If  I  am 
not  at  the  office  when  the  brougham  comes  to 
fetch  me  for  luncheon,  you  can  notify  the  office 
that  I  have  been  called  away.  You  needn't 
bother  about  packing  things  for  me ;  I  will  buy 
anything  I  want  where  I  am  going." 

"  I  could  easily  pack  a  bag  for  you,"  said 
Mudd,  "  and  you  could  take  it  with  you  to  the 
office." 

"  I  want  no  bag.  I  have  given  you  your 
directions,"  said  Simon,  and  Mudd  went  off 
grumbling  and  snubbed. 

Then  the  lawyer  sat  down  and  plunged  into 
law  again,  folding  up  the  documents  at  eleven 
44 


TIDD  AND  RENSHAW 

o'clock  and  putting  them  carefully  in  his  bureau. 
Then  he  switched  off  the  electric  light,  examined 
the  hall  door  to  see  that  it  was  properly  bolted, 
and  went  up  to  bed  carrying  the  case  of  Tidd  v, 
Renshaw  with  him  as  a  nightcap. 

It  hung  about  his  intellect  like  a  penumbra  as 
he  undressed,  warding  off,  or  partly  warding  off, 
thoughts  about  Oppenshaw  and  his  own  condi- 
tion that  were  trying  to  get  into  his  mind. 

Then  he  popped  into  bed,  and,  still  pursuing 
Tidd  V.  Renshaw  through  the  labyrinths  of  the 
law,  and  holding  tight  on  to  their  tails,  fell 
asleep. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  WALLET 

HE  awoke  to  Mudd  drawing  the  blinds 
and  to  another  perfect  day — a  sum- 
mer morning,  luxurious  and  warm, 
beautiful  even  in  London.  He  had  lost  clutch 
of  Tidd  and  Renshaw  in  the  land  of  sleep,  but 
he  had  found  his  strength  and  self-confidence 
again. 

The  terror  of  Lethmann's  disease  had  van- 
ished; the  thing  was  absurd,  he  had  been  fright- 
ened by  a  bogey.  Oppenshaw  was  a  clever  man, 
but  he  was  a  specialist,  always  thinking  of  nerve 
diseases,  living  in  an  atmosphere  of  them.  Sir 
Ralph  Puttick,  on  the  contrary,  was  a  man  of 
solid  understanding  and  wider  views — a  sane 
man. 

So  he  told  himself  as  he  took  "  Wednesday  " 
from  its  case  and  shaved  himself.  Then  he 
came  down  to  the  same  frizzled  bacon  and  the 
same  aired  Times,  put  on  the  same  overcoat  and 
hat,  and  got;  into  the  same  old  brougham  and 
started  for  the  office. 

He   went   into   his   room,   where   his   usual 

46 


THE  WALLET 

morning  letters  were  laid  out  for  him.  But  he 
did  not  take  off  his  coat  and  hat.  He  had  come 
to  a  determination.  Oppenshaw  had  told  him 
to  leave  the  wallet  where  it  was  and  not  take  the 
notes  back  to  the  bank,  as  that  would  be  a 
weakness.  Sir  Ralph  Puttick  was  telling  him 
now  that  Oppenshaw  was  a  fool.  The  real 
weakness  would  be  to  follow  the  advice  of 
Oppenshaw.  To  follow  that  advice  would  be  to 
play  with  this  business  and  confess  that  there 
was  reality  in  it;  besides,  with  those  notes  in 
the  safe  behind  him  he  could  never  do  his  morn- 
ing's work. 

No ;  back  those  notes  should  go  to  the  bank. 
He  opened  the  safe,  and  there  was  the  wallet 
seated  like  an  evil  genius  on  the  deed-box.  He 
took  it  out  and  put  it  under  his  arm,  locked  the 
safe  and  left  the  room. 

In  the  outer  office  all  the  clerks  were  busy, 
and  Brownlow  was  in  his  room  with  the  door 
shut. 

Simon,  with  the  wallet  under  his  arm,  walked 
out  and  passed  through  the  precincts  of  Old 
Serjeants'  Inn  to  Fleet  Street,  where  a  waft  of 
warm  summer,  yet  springlike,  wind  met  him  in 
the  face. 


47 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   soul's  awakening 

HE  raised  his  head,  sniffed  as  if  inhaling 
something,  and  quickened  his  step. 
What  a  glorious  day  it  was;  even 
Fleet  Street  had  a  touch  of  youth  about  it. 

A  flower-woman  and  her  wares  caught  his 
eye ;  he  bought  a  bunch  of  late  violets  and,  with 
his  hat  tilted  back,  dived  in  his  trousers'  pocket 
and  produced  a  handful  of  silver.  He  gave  her 
a  shilling  and,  without  asking  for  change, 
walked  on,  the  violets  in  his  buttonhole. 

He  was  making  west  like  a  homing  pigeon. 
He  walked  like  a  man  in  a  hurry  but  with  no 
purpose,  his  glance  skimmed  things  and  seemed 
to  rest  only  on  things  coloured  or  pleasant  to 
look  on,  his  eyes  showed  no  speculation.  He 
seemed  like  a  person  with  no  more  past  than  a 
dreamer.  The  present  seemed  to  him  every- 
thing— ^just  as  it  is  to  the  dreamer. 

In  the  Strand  he  stopped  here  and  there  to 
glance    at    the    contents    of    shops;    neckties 
attracted  him.     Then  Fuller's  drew  him  in  by 
51 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

its  colour.  He  had  a  vanllla-and-strawberry  ice 
and  chatted  to  the  girls,  who  did  not  receive  his 
advances,  however,  with  much  favour. 

Then  he  came  to  Romanos* ;  it  attracted  him, 
and  he  went  in.  Gilded  youths  were  drinking 
at  the  bar,  and  a  cocktail  being  mixed  by  the 
bar-tender  fascinated  Simon  by  its  colour;  he 
had  one  like  it,  chatted  to  the  man,  paid,  and 
walked  out. 

It  was  now  eleven. 

Still  walking  gaily  and  lightly,  as  one  walks  in 
a  happy  dream,  he  reached  the  Charing  Cross 
Hotel,  asked  the  porter  to  show  him  the  rooms 
he  had  reserved,  and  enquired  if  his  luggage 
had  come. 

The  luggage  had  come  and  was  deposited  in 
the  bedroom  of  the  suite :  two  large  brand-new 
portmanteaux  and  a  hat-box,  also  a  band-box 
from  Lincoln  Bennett's. 

The  portmanteaux  and  hat-box  were  locked, 
but  in  the  band-box  were  the  keys,  gummed  up 
in  an  envelope;  there  was  also  a  straw  hat  in 
the  band-box — a  boater. 

The  porter,  having  unstrapped  the  port- 
manteaux, departed  with  a  tip,  and  our  gentle- 
man began  to  unpack  swiftly  and  with  the 
eagerness  of  a  child  going  to  a  party. 

O  Youth !    What  a  star  thou  art,  yet  what  a 
52 


THE  SOUUS  AWAKENING 

folly!  And  yet  can  all  wisdom  give  one  the 
pleasure  of  one's  first  ball-dress,  of  the  young 
man's  brand-new  suit?  And  there  were  brand- 
new  suits  and  to  spare,  check  tweed,  blue  serge, 
boating  flannels;  shoes,  too,  and  boots  from  the 
Burlington  Arcade,  ties  and  socks  from  Beale 
and  Inman's. 

It  was  like  a  trousseau. 

As  he  unpacked  he  whistled.  Whistled  a  tune 
that  was  young  in  the  sixties — "  Champagne 
Charley,"  no  less. 

Then  he  dressed,  vigorously  digging  his  head 
into  a  striped  shirt,  donning  a  purple  tie,  purple 
socks,  and  a  grey  tweed  suit  of  excellent  cut. 

All  his  movements  were  feverish,  light,  rapid. 
He.  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  details  of  the 
room  around  him;  he  seemed  skimming  along 
the  surface  of  things  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  some 
goal  of  pleasure.  Flushed  and  bright-eyed,  he 
scarcely  looked  fifty  now,  yet,  despite  this  re- 
duction in  age,  his  general  get-up  had  a  touch  of 
the  raffish.  Purple  socks  and  ties  are  a  bit  off 
at  fifty;  a  straw  "  boater  "  does  not  reduce  the 
effect,  nor  do  tan  shoes. 

But  Simon  was  quite  satisfied  with  himself. 

Still  whistling,  he  bundled  his  old  things  away 
in  a  drawer  and  left  the  other  things  lying  about 
for  the  servants  to  put  away,  and  sat  down  on 
S3 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

the   side  of  the  bed  with  the   wallet   In   his 
hands. 

He  opened  it  and  turned  the  notes  but  on  the 
quilt.  The  gorgeous  bundle  to  **  bust "  or  do 
what  he  liked  with  held  him  in  its  thrall  as 
he  turned  over  the  contents,  not  counting  the 
amount,  but  just  reviewing  the  notes  and  the 
huge  sums  on  most  of  them. 

Heavens !  What  a  delight  even  in  a  dream  I 
To  be  young  and  absolutely  free  from  all  re- 
straint, free  from  all  ties,  unconscious  of  rela- 
tives, unconscious  of  everything  but  immediate 
surroundings,  with  virginal  appetites  and  desires 
and  countless  sovereigns  to  meet  them  with. 
Dangling  his  heels,  and  with  his  straw  hat 
beside  him,  he  gloated  on  his  treasure;  then, 
picking  out  three  ten-pound  notes  and  putting 
the  remainder  in  the  wallet,  he  locked  the  wallet 
away  in  his  portmanteau  and  put  the  key  under 
the  wardrobe. 

Then,  leaving  his  room,  he  came  downstairs 
with  his  straw  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  a 
smile  for  a  pretty  chambermaid  who  passed  him 
coming  up. 

The  girl  laughed  and  glanced  back,  but 
whether  she  was  laughing  at  or  with  him  it 
would  be  hard  to  say.  Chambermaids  have 
strange  tastes. 

54 


THE  SOUUS  AWAKENING 

It  was  in  the  hall  that  he  met  Moxon,  senior 
partner  In  Plunder's,  the  great  bill-discounting 
firm;  a  tall  man,  serious  of  face  and  manner. 

"  Why,  God  bless  my  soul,  Pettigrew !  "  cried 
Moxon,  "  I  scarcely  knew  you." 

"  You  have  the  advantage  of  me,  old  cock," 

replied  Simon  airily,  "  for  I'm if  I  ever: 

met  you  before." 

"  My  mistake,"  said  Moxon. 

It  was  Pettigrew' s  face  and  voice,  but  all  the 
rest  was  not  Pettigrew,  and  the  discounter  oi 
bills  hurried  off,  feeling  as  though  he  had  come 
across  the  uncanny — ^which  he  had. 

Simon  paused  at  the  office,  holding  a  lady 
clerk  in  light  conversation  about  the  weather 
and  turning  upon  her  that  sprightly  wit  already 
mentioned.  She  was  busy  and  stiff,  and  the 
weather  and  his  wit  didn't  seem  to  interest  her. 
Then  he  asked  for  change  of  a  ten-pound  note, 
and  she  gave  it  to  him  in  sovereigns;  then  he 
asked  for  change  of  a  sovereign — she  gave  it  to 
him;  then  he  asked,  with  a  grin,  for  change  of  a 
shilling.  She  was  outraged  now;  that  which 
ought  to  have  made  her  laugh  seemed  to  incense 
her.  Do  what  he  could,  hq  couldn't  warm 
her. 

She  was  colder  than  the  ice-cream  girls.  What 
the  devil  was  the  matter  with  them  all?    She 
55 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

slapped  the  change  for  the  shilling  down  and 
turned  away  to  her  books. 

Tilting  his  hat  further  back,  he  rapped  with  a 
penny  on  the  ledge. 

She  got  up. 

"  Well,  what  Is  It  now?  " 

"  Can  you  change  me  a  penny,  please?  "  said 
Simon. 

"  Mrs.  Jones !  "  called  the  girl. 

A  stout  lady  manageress  In  black  appeared. 

"  I  don't  know  what  this  gentleman 
means." 

The  manageress  raised  her  eyebrows  at  the 
jester. 

"  I  asked  the  young  lady  for  change  of  a 
penny.  Can  you  let  me  have  two  halfpence  for 
a  penny,  please?  " 

The  manageress  opened  the  till  and  gave  the 
change.  The  gay  one  departed,  chuckling.  He 
had  had  the  best  of  the  girl,  silly  creature,  that 
could  not  take  a  joke  in  good  part — but  he  had 
enjoyed  himself. 

Moving  in  the  line  of  least  resistance  towards 
the  phantom  of  pleasure,  he  made  for  the  hotel 
entrance  and  the  sunlight  showing  through  the 
door,  bought  a  cigar  at  the  kiosk  outside,  and 
then  bundled  Into  a  taxi. 

"  Where  to,  sir?  ''  asked  the  driver. 

56 


iIHE  SOUL'S  AWAKENING 

"  First  bar,"  replied  Simon.  "  First  decent 
one,  and  look  sharp." 

The  surly  driver — Heavens,  how  the  old 
hansom  cabby  of  the  sixties  would  have  hailed 
such  a  fare,  and  with  what  joy! — closed  the 
door  without  a  word  and  started  winding  up 
the  engine.  He  had  difficulties,  and  as  he  went 
on  winding  the  occupant  put  his  head  out  of  the 
window  and  addressed  the  station  policeman 
who  was  looking  on. 

"  Has  the  chap  a  licence  for  a  barrel-organ?  " 
asked  Simon.  "  If  he  hasn't,  ask  him  to  drive 
on." 

He  shut  the  window.  They  started,  and 
stopped  at  a  bar  in  Leicester  Square.  Simon 
paid  and  entered. 

It  was  a  long  bar,  a  glittering,  loathsome, 
noxious  place  where,  behind  a  long  counter,  six 
barmaids  were  serving  all  sorts  of  men  with  all 
sorts  of  drinks. 

Simon  seemed  to  find  it  all  right.  Puffing  his 
cigar,  he  ordered  a  brandy  cold — a  brandy  cold ! 
And  sipping  his  brandy  cold,  he  took  stock  of 
the  men  around. 

Even  his  innocence  and  newness — despite  the 
crave  for  companionship  now  on  him — recog- 
nised that  there  were  undesirables,  and  as  for 
the  bar  girls,  they  were  frozen  images — for  him. 

57 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

They  were  laughing  and  changing  words  with 
all  sorts  of  young  men — counter-jumpers  and 
horsey  men — but  for  him  they  had  nothing  but 
brandy  cold  and  monosyllables.  He  was  be- 
ginning to  get  irritated  with  woman;  but  the 
sunlight  outside  and  two  cold  brandies  inside 
restored  his  happy  humour,  and  the  idea  of 
lunch  was  now  moving  before  him,  luring  him 
on. 

Thinking  thus,  he  was  advancing  not  towards 
luncheon  but  towards  Fate. 

At  Piccadilly  Circus  there  was  a  crowd  round 
an  omnibus.  There  generally  are  crowds  round 
omnibuses  just  here,  but  this  was  a  special 
crowd,  having  for  its  core  an  irate  bus  conduc- 
tor and  a  pretty  girl. 

Oh,  such  a  pretty  girl  I  Spring  itself,  dark- 
haired,  dark-eyed,  well  dressed,  but  with  just 
that  touch  which  tells  of  want  of  affluence.  She 
fascinated  Simon  as  a  flower  fascinates  a  bee. 

"  But,  sir,  I  tell  you  I  have  lost  my  purse ; 
some  pocket-picker  has  taken  it.  I  shall  be 
pleased  to  tell  you  where  I  live  and  reward  you 
if  you  come  for  the  money.  My  name  is  Cerise 
Rossignol."  This,  with  just  a  trace  of  foreign 
accent. 

"  I've  been  done  twice  this  week  by  that 
game,"   said  the  brutal  conductor,   speaking, 

58 


J 


THE  SOUL'S  AWAKENING 

however,  the  truth.  "  Come,  search  In  your 
glove,  you'll  find  it." 

Simon  broke  in. 

"  How  much?  "  said  he. 

*'  Tuppence,"  said  the  conductor.  Then  the 
gods  that  preside  over  youth  might  have  ob- 
served this  new  Andromeda,  released  at  the 
charge  of  Tuppence,  wandering  off  with  her 
saviour  and  turning  to  him  a  face  filled  with 
gratitude. 

They  were  going  in  the  direction  of  Leicester 
Square. 


59 


CHAPTER  II 


MOXON  AND  MUDD 


NOW,  Moxon  had  come  up  that  morning 
from  Framlingham  in  Kent,  where  he 
was  taking  a  holiday,  to  transact 
some  business.  Amongst  other  things  he  had 
to  see  Simon  Pettigrew  on  a  question  about 
some  bills. 

The  apparition  he  had  encountered  in  the  hall 
of  the  Charing  Cross  Hotel  pursued  him  to 
Plunder's  office,  where  he  first  went,  and,  when 
he  left  Plunder's  for  luncheon  at  Prosser's,  in 
Chancery  Lane,  it  still  pursued  him. 

Though  he  knew  it  could  not  be  Pettigrew, 
some  uneasy  spirit  in  his  subconsciousness  kept 
insisting  that  it  was  Pettigrew. 

At  two  o'clock  he  called  at  Old  Serjeants'  Inn. 
He  saw  Brownlow,  who  had  just  returned  from 
lunch. 

No,  Mr.  Pettigrew  was  not  in.  He  had  gone 
out  that  morning  early  and  had  not  returned. 

**  I  must  see  him,"  said  Moxon.    "  When  do 
you  think  he  will  be  in?  " 
60 


MOXON  AND  MUDD 

Brownlow  couldn't  say. 

"  Would  he  be  at  his  house,  do  you  think?  " 

"  Hardly,"  said  Brownlow;  "  he  might  have 
gone  home,  but  I  think  it's  improbable." 

"  I  must  see  him,"  said  Moxon  again.  "  It's 
extraordinary.  Why,  I  wrote  to  him  telling 
him  I  was  coming  this  afternoon  and  he  knows 
the  importance  of  my  business." 

"  Mr.  Pettigrew  hasn't  opened  his  morning 
letters  yet,"  said  Brownlow. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  said  Moxon. 

Then,  after  a  pause : 

"  Will  you  telephone  to  his  house  to  see  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Pettigrew  has  no  telephone,"  said 
Brownlow;  "he  dislikes  them,  except  in  busi- 
ness." 

Moxon  remembered  this  and  other  old- 
fashioned  traits  in  Pettigrew;  the  remembrance 
did  not  ease  his  irritation. 

"  Then  I'll  go  to  his  house  myself,"  said  he. 

When  he  arrived  at  King  Charles  Street, 
Mudd  opened  the  door. 

Mudd  and  Moxon  were  mutually  known  one 
to  the  other,  Moxon  having  often  dined  there. 

".  Is  your  master  in,  Mudd?  "  asked  Moxon. 

"No,  sir,"  answered  Mudd;  "he's  not  at 
home,  and  mayn't  be  at  home  for  some  time." 
*What  do  you  mean  ?  " 
61: 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  He  left  me  directions  that  if  he  wasn't  at 
the  office  when  the  brougham  called  to  take  him 
to  luncheon  I  was  to  tell  the  office  he  was  called 
away;  the  coachman  has  just  come  back  to  say 
he  wasn't  there,  so  I  am  sending  him  back  to 
the  office  to  tell  them." 

"  Called  away!    For  how  long?  " 

**  Well,  it  might  be  a  month,"  said  Mudd, 
remembering. 

"Extraordinary!"  said  Moxon.  "Well,  I 
can't  help  it,  and  I  can't  wait;  I  must  take  my 
business  elsewhere.  I  thought  I  saw  Mr.  Petti- 
grew  in  the  Charing  Cross  Hotel,  but  he  was 
dressed  differently  and  seemed  strange.  Well, 
this  is  a  great  nuisance,  but  It  can't  be  helped, 
I  suppose.  ...  A  month  .  .  ." 

Off  he  went  in  a  huff. 

Mudd  watched  him  as  he  went,  then  he  closed 
the  hall  door.  Then  he  sat  down  on  one  of  the 
hall  chairs. 

"  Dressed  differently  and  seemed  strange." 
It  only  wanted  those  words  to  start  alarm  in  the 
mind  of  Mudd. 

The  affair  of  a  year  ago  had  always  perplexed 
him,  and  now  this ! 

"  Seemed  strange." 

Could  it  be?  .  .  .  H'm.  .  .  .  He  got  up 
and  went  downstairs. 

62 


MOXON  AND  MUDD 

**Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Mr. 
Mudd?"  asked  the  cook-housekeeper.  "Why, 
you're  all  of  a  shake." 

"  It's  my  stomach,"  said  Mudd. 
He  took  a  glass  of  ginger  wine,  then  he 
fetched  his  hat. 

"  I'm  going  out  to  get  the  air,"  said  Mudd. 
"I  mayn't  be  back  for  some  time;  don't 
bother  about  me  if  I  aren't,  and  be  sure  to  lock 
up  the  plate." 

"  God  bless  my  soul,  what's  the  matter  with 
the  man?"  murmured  the  astonished  house- 
keeper as  Mudd  vanished.  "  Blest  if  he  isn't 
getting  as  queer  as  his  master!  " 

Out  in  the  street  Mudd  paused  to  blow  his 
nose  in  a  bandanna  handkerchief  just  like 
Simon's.  Then,  as  though  this  act  had  started 
his  mechanism,  off  he  went,  hailed  an  omnibus 
in  the  next  street,  and  got  off  at  Charing  Cross* 

He  entered  the  Charing  Cross  Hotel. 

"  Is  a  Mr.  Pettigrew  here?  "  asked  Mudd  of 
the  hall  porter. 

The  hall  porter  grinned. 

"  Yes,  there's  a  Mr.  Pettigrew  staying  here, 
but  he's  out." 

"  Well,  I'm  his  servant,"  said  Mudd. 

"Staying  here  with  him?"  asked  the 
porter. 

"63 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  Yes.  I've  followed  him  on.  What's  the 
number  of  his  room?  " 

"  The  ojffice  will  know,"  replied  the  other. 

"  Well,  just  go  to  the  office  and  get  his  key," 
said  Mudd,  "  and  send  a  messenger  boy  to  No. 
12,  King  Charles  Street — that's  our  address — 
to  tell  Mrs.  Jukes,  the  housekeeper,  I  won't  be 
able  to  get  back  to-night  maybe.  Here's  a 
shilling  for  him — but  show  me  his  room  first." 

Mudd  carried  conviction. 

The  hall  porter  went  to  the  office. 

"Key  of  Mr.  Pettigrew's  room,"  said  he; 
"  his  servant  has  just  come." 

The  superior  damsel  detached  herself  from 
book-keeping,  looked  up  the  number  and  gave 
the  key. 

Mudd  took  it  and  went  up  in  the  lift.  He 
opened  the  door  of  the  room  and  went  in.  The 
place  had  not  been  tidied,  clothes  lay  every- 
where. 

Mudd,  like  a  cat  in  a  strange  house,  looked 
around.    Then  he  shut  the  door. 

Then  he  took  up  a  coat  and  looked  at  the 
maker's  name  on  the  tab. 

"  Holland  and  Woolson  " — Simon's  tailors ! 

Then  he  examined  all  the  garments.  Such 
garments  I  Boating  flannels,  serge  suits !  Then 
the  shoes,  the  patent  leather  boots.    He  opened 

64 


MOXON  AND  MUDD 

the  chest  of  drawers  and  found  the  bundle  of 
discarded  clothes — the  old  coat  with  the  left 
elbow  *'  going,"  and  the  rest.  He  held  them  up, 
examined  them,  folded  them  and  put  them  back. 

Then  he  sat  down  to  recover  himself,  blew 
his  nose,  wondered  whether  he  or  Simon  were 
crazy,  and  then,  rising  up,  began  to  fold  and 
put  away  the  new  things  in  the  wardrobe  and 
chest-of-drawers. 

He  noticed  that  one  of  the  portmanteaux  was 
locked.  Yet  there  was  something  in  it  that  slid 
up  and  down  as  he  tilted  and  lowered  it. 

Having  looked  round  the  room  once  again, 
he  went  downstairs,  gave  up  the  key,  made  ar- 
rangements for  his  room,  and  started  out. 

He  made  for  Sackville  Street.  Meyer,  the 
foreman  of  Holland  and  Woolson's,  was  known 
to  him.  He  had  sometimes  called  regarding 
Simon's  clothes  with  directions  for  this  or  that. 

"  That  blue  serge  suit  youVe  just  sent  for  Mr. 
Pettigrew  don't  quite  rightly  fit,  Mr.  Meyer," 
said  the  cunning  Mudd.  "  I  had  the  coat  done 
up  in  a  parcel  to  bring  back  to  you  for  the 
sleeves  to  be  shortened  half  an  inch,  but  I  forgot 
it;  only  remembered  I'd  forgot  it  at  your  door." 

"  We'll  send  for  it,"  said  Meyer. 

"  Right,"  said  Mudd.  Then,  **  No— on  sec- 
ond  thoughts,  I'll  fetch  it  myself  when  I  have  a 

6s 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

moment  to  spare,  for  weVe  going  from  home 
for  a  few  days.  Mr.  Pettigrew  has  had  a  good 
lot  of  clothes  lately,  Mr.  Meyer." 

"  He  has,"  said  Meyer,  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye ;  "  suits  and  suits,  almost  as  if  he  were  going 
to  be  married." 

"  Married!  "  cried  the  other.  "What  put 
that  into  your  head,  Mr.  Meyer?  He^s  not  a 
marrying  man.  Why,  IVe  never  seen  him  as 
much  as  glance  an  eye  at  a  female." 

"  Oh,  it  was  only  my  joke,"  said  Meyer. 

Now,  in  Mudd's  soul  there  had  lain  for  years 
an  uneasiness,  a  crumpled  rose-leaf  of  thought 
that  touched  him  sometimes  as  he  turned  at 
night  in  bed.  It  was  the  fear  that  some  day 
Simon  might  ruin  Mudd's  life  with  a  mistress. 
He  couldn't  stand  a  mistress.  He  had  always 
sworn  that  to  himself;  the  experience  of  fellow 
butlers  whose  lives  were  made  loathsome  by 
mistresses  would  have  been  enough  without  his 
own  deep-rooted  antipathy  to  females,  except  as 
spectacular  objects.  Mrs.  Jukes  was  a  relation 
of  his,  and  he  could  stand  her;  the  maid-servants 
were  automata  beneath  his  notice — ^but  a  mis- 
tress ! 

Mad  alarm  filled  his  mind,  for  his  heart  told 
him  that  the  words  of  Meyer  had  foundation  in 
probability. 


MOXON  AND  MUDD 

That  affair  of  last  year,  when  Simon  had 
departed  and  returned  in  new  strange  clothes, 
might  have  been  the  courting,  this  the  real 
thing? 

He  left  the  tailor's,  called  a  taxi  and  drove  to 
the  office. 

Brownlow  was  in. 

"What  is  it,  Mudd?"  asked  Brownlow,  as 
the  latter  was  shown  into  his  room. 

"  Did  you  get  piy  message,  Mr.  Brownlow?  " 
asked  Mudd. 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Mudd.  "  I  just 
thought  rd  call  and  ask.  The  master  told  me 
to  send  the  message;  he's  going  away  for  a  bit. 
Wants  a  change,  too.  I  think  he's  been  over- 
working lately,  Mr.  Brownlow." 

"  He's  always  overworking,"  said  Brownlow. 
"  I  think  he's  been  suffering  from  brain-fag, 
Mudd;  he's  very  reticent  about  himself,  but  I'm 
glad  he  saw  a  doctor." 
r     "  Saw  a  doctor !    Why,  he  never  told  me." 

"Didn't  he?  Well,  he  did— Dr.  Oppen- 
shaw,  of  Harley  Street.  This  is  between 
you  and  me.  Try  and  make  him  rest  more, 
Mudd." 

"  I  will,"  said  Mudd.  "  He  wants  rest.  I've 
been  uneasy  about  him  a  long  while.  What's  the 

67 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

doctor's  number  in  Harley  Street,  Mr.  Brown- 
low?" 

"  IIOA,"  said  Brownlow,  picking  the  number 
out  of  his  marvellous  memory;  "but  don't  let 
Mr.  Pettigrew  know  I  told  you.     He's  very 
touchy  about  himself." 
1  won  t. 

Off  he  went. 

"  Faithful  old  servitor,"  thought  Brownlow. 

The  faithful  old  servitor  got  into  a  taxi. 
"  iioA,  Harley  Street,"  said  he  to  the  driver; 
"  and  drive  quick  and  I'll  give  you  an  extra 
tuppence." 

Oppenshaw  was  in. 

When  he  was  informed  that  Pettigrew's 
servant  had  called  to  see  him,  he  turned  over  a 
duchess  he  was  engaged  on,  gave  her  a  harmless 
prescription,  bowed  her  out  and  rang  the  bell. 

Mudd  was  shown  in. 

"  I've  come  to  ask "  said  Mudd. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Oppenshaw 

"  I've  come  to  speak " 

"  I  know;  about  your  master.    How  is  he?  " 

"  Well,  I've  come  to  ask  you,  sir;  he's  at  the 
Charing  Cross  Hotel  at  present." 

"  Has  he  gone  there  to  live  ?  " 

"  Well,  he's  there." 

"  I  saw  him  some  time  ago  about  the  state  of 
68 


MOXON  AND  MUDD 

his  health,  and,  frankly,  Mr.  Mudd,  it's 
serious." 

Mudd  nodded. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Oppenshaw,  "  has  he  been 
buying  new  clothes?  " 

"Heaps;  no  end,"  said  Mudd.  "And  such 
clothes — things  he's  never  worn  before." 

"So?  Well,  it's  fortunate  you  found  him. 
What  is  his  conversation  like  ?  Have  you  talked 
to  him  much?  " 

"  I  haven't  seen  him  yet,"  Mudd  explained. 

"  Well,  stay  close  to  him,  and  be  very  careful. 
He  is  suffering  from  a  form  of  mental  upset. 
You  must  cross  him  as  little  as  possible,  use  per- 
suasion, gentle  persuasion.  The  thing  will  run 
its  course.    It  mustn't  be  suddenly  checked.'* 

"  Is  he  mad?  "  asked  the  other. 

"  No,  but  he  is  not  himself — or  rather,  he  is 
himself — In  a  different  way;  but  a  sudden  check 
might  make  him  mad.  You  have  heard  of 
people  walking  in  their  sleep — well,  this  Is  some- 
thing akin  to  that.  You  know  it  is  highly  dan- 
gerous to  awaken  a  sleep-walker  suddenly. 
Well,  It's  just  the  same,  with  Mr.  Pettigrew;  it 
might  unbalance  his  mind  for  good." 

"What  am  I  to  do?" 

"  Just  keep  watch  on  him." 

"  But  suppose  he  don't  know  me?  " 

69 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  He  won't  know  you,  but  if  you  are  kind  to 
him  he  will  accept  you  into  his  environment,  and 
then  you  will  link  on  to  his  mental  state." 

"  He's  out  now,  and  God  knows  where,  or 
doing  what,"  said  Mudd;  "but  I'll  be  on  the 
watch  for  him  coming  in — if  he  ever  comes." 

"  Oh,  he  will  come  home  right  enough." 

"  Is  there  any  fear  of  those  women  getting 
hold  of  him?  "  asked  Mudd,  returning  to  his 
old  dread. 

"  That's  just  what  there  is — every  fear;  but 
you  must  be  very  careful  not  to  Interpose  your 
will  violently.  Get  gently  between,  gently  be- 
tween. You  understand  me.  Suggestion  does  a 
lot  in  these  cases.  Another  thing,  you  must 
treat  him  as  one  treats  a  boy.  You  must  imag- 
ine to  yourself  that  your  master  is  only  twenty, 
for  that,  in  truth,  is  what  he  is.  He  has  gone 
back  to  a  younger  state — or  rather,  a  younger 
state  has  come  to  meet  him,  having  lain  dor- 
mant, just  as  a  wisdom  tooth  lies  dormant,  then 
grows." 

"Oh,  Lord  I"  said  Mudd.  "I  never  did 
think  I'd  live  to  see  this  day." 

"  Oh,  it  might  be  worse." 

"  I  don't  see." 

"  Well,  from  what  I  can  make  out  of  his 
youth,  it  was  not  a  vicious  one,  only  foolish; 
70 


I 


MOXON  AND  MUDD 

haa  he  been  vicious  when  young  he  might  be 
terrible  now." 

"  The  first  solicitor  in  London,"  said  Mudd 
in  a  dreary  voice. 

*'  Well,  he's  not  the  first  solicitor  in  Lon- 
don to  make  a  fool  of  himself,  nor  will  he 
be  the  last.  Cheer  up  and  keep  your  eyes  open 
and  do  your  duty  no  man  can  do  more  than 
that." 

"  Shall  I  send  for  you,  doctor,  if  he  gets 
worse?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Oppenshaw;  "  from  what  you 
tell  me  he  couldn't  be  much  worse.  Oh  no, 
don't  bother  to  send — ^unless,  of  course,  the 
thing  took  a  different  course,  and  he  were  to  be- 
come violent  without  reason;  but  that  won't 
happen,  you  can  take  my  word  for  it." 

Mudd  departed. 

He  walked  all  the  way  back  to  the  Charing 
Cross  Hotel,  but  instead  of  entering,  he  sud- 
denly took  a  taxi,  and  returned  to  Charles 
Street.  Here  he  packed  some  things  in  a  hand- 
bag, and  having  again  given  directions  to  Mrs. 
Jukes  to  lock  up  the  plate,  he  told  her  he  might 
be  some  time  gone. 

"  I'm  going  with  the  master  on  some  law 
business,"  said  Mudd.     "  Make  sure  and  bolt 
the  front  door — and  lock  up  the  plate." 
71 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

It  was  the  third  or  fourth  time  he  had  given 
her  these  instructions. 

"  He's  out  of  his  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Jukes,  as 
she  watched  him  go.    She  wasn't  far  wrong. 

Mudd  had  been  used  to  a  rut — a  rut  forty 
years  deep.  His  light  and  pleasant  duties  car- 
ried him  easily  through  the  day.  Of  evenings 
when  Simon  was  dining  out  he  would  join  a  so- 
cial circle  in  the  private  room  of  a  highly  re- 
spectable tavern  close  by,  smoke  his  pipe,  drink 
two  hot  gins,  and  depart  for  home  at  ten-thirty. 
When  Simon  was  in  he  could  smoke  his  pipe  and 
read  his  paper  in  his  own  private  room.  He 
had  five  hundred  pounds  laid  by  in  the  bank — 
no  stocks  and  shares  for  Mudd — and  he  would 
vary  his  evening  amusements  by  counting  the 
toll  of  his  money. 

It  is  easy  to  be  seen  that  this  jolt  out  of  the 
rut  was,  literally,  a  jolt. 

At  the  Charing  Cross  Hotel  he  found  the 
room  allotted  to  him,  deposited  his  things  and, 
disdaining  the  servants'  quarters,  v/ent  out  to  a 
tavern  to  read  the  paper. 

He  reckoned  Simon  might  not  return  till  late, 
and  he  reckoned  right. 


72 


CHAPTER  III 

Simon's  old-fashioned  night  in  town 

MADAME  ROSSIGNOL  was  a  charm- 
ing  old  lady  of  sixty,  a  production  of 
France — no  other  country  could  have 
produced  her.  She  lived  in  Duke  Street, 
Leicester  Square,  supporting  herself  and  her 
daughter  Cerise  by  translating  English  books 
into  French.  Cerise  did  millinery.  Madame 
combined  absolute  innocence  with  absolute  in- 
stinct. She  knew  all  about  things ;  her  innocence 
was  not  ignorance,  it  was  purity — rising  above 
a  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  disdaining  to 
look  at  evil. 

She  was  dreadfully  poor. 

Her  love  for  Cerise  was  like  a  disease  always 
preying  upon  her.  Should  she  die,  what  would 
happen  to  Cerise? 

Behold  these  together  clasped  in  each  other's 
arms.  Set  in  the  shabby  sitting-room,  it  might 
have  been  a  scene  at  the  Port  St.  Martin. 

"  Oh,  mother,"  murmured  the  girl,  "  is  he 
not  good  I  " 

73 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  He  is  more  than  good,"  said  Madame. 
"  Most  surely  the  hon  Dieu  sent  him  to  be  your 
guardian  angel." 

"Is  he  not  charming?"  went  on  Cerise, 
unlinking  herself  from  the  maternal  embrace 
and  touching  her  hair  into  order  again  with  a 
little  laugh.  "  So  different  from  the  leaden- 
faced  English,  so  gay  and  yet  so — so " 

"  There  is  a  something — I  do  not  know  what 
— about  him,"  said  the  old  lady;  "  something  of 
Romance.  Is  it  not  like  a  little  tale  of  Madame 
Perichon's  or  a  little  play  of  Monsieur  Baree? 
Might  he  not  just  have  come  in  as  in  one  of 
those?  You  go  out,  lose  your  purse,  are  lost.  I 
sit  waiting  for  you  at  your  non-return  in  this 
wilderness  of  London;  you  return,  but  not  alone. 
With  you  comes  the  Marquis  de  Grandcourt, 
who  bows  and  says,  *  Madame,  I  return  you  your 
daughter;  I  ask  in  return  your  friendship.  I 
am  alone,  like  you;  let  us  then  be  friends.'  I 
reply,  *  Monsieur,  you  behold  our  poverty,  but 
you  cannot  behold  our  hearts  or  the  gratitude 
In  my  mind.'    What  a  little  story!  " 

"  And  how  he  laughed,  and  said,  *  Hang 
monee ! '  "  cut  In  Cerise.  "  What  means  that 
*  hang  monee!  '  maman?  And  how  he  pulled 
out  all  the  gold  pieces  like  a  boy,  saying,  *  I  am 
rich ! ' — ^just  as  a  little  boy  might  say,  *  I  am 
74 


A  NIGHT  IN  TOWN 

rich !  I  am  rich  I  '  No  bourgeois  could  have 
done  that  without  offending,  without  giving  one 
a  shiver  of  the  skin." 

"  You  have  said  it,"  replied  Madame.  "  A 
little  boy — a  great  and  good  man,  yet  a  little 
boy.  He  is  not  in  his  first  youth,  but  there  are 
people,  like  Pierre  Pan,  who  never  lose  youth. 
It  is  so;  I  have  seen  it." 

"  Simon  Pattigrew,"  murmured  Cerise,  with 
a  little  laugh. 

A  knock  came  to  the  door  and  a  little  maid- 
of-all-work,  and  down  at  heel,  entered  with  a 
huge  bouquet,  one  of  those  bouquets  youth  flings 
at  prima  donnas. 

Simon,  after  leaving  the  Rossignols,  had 
struck  a  flower  shop — this  was  the  result.  A 
piece  of  paper  accompanied  the  bouquet,  and 
on  the  paper,  written  in  a  handwriting  that 
hitherto  had  only  appeared  on  letters  of  busi- 
ness and  documents  of  law,  were  the  words: 
"  From  your  Friend." 

Simon,  having  struck  the  flower  shop,  might 
have  struck  a  fruit  shop  and  a  bonnet  shop,  only 
that  the  joy  of  love,  the  love  that  comes  at  first 
sight,  the  love  of  dreams,  made  him  incapable 
of  any  more  business — even  the  business  of  buy- 
ing presents  for  his  fascinator. 

It  was  now  five  o'clock,  and,  pursuing  his  way 
75 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

West,  he  found  Piccadilly.  He  passed  girls 
without  looking  at  them — he  saw  only  the  vision 
of  Cerise.  She  led  him  as  far  as  St.  George's 
Hospital,  as  though  leading  him  away  from  the 
temptations  of  the  West,  but  the  gloomy  pros- 
pect of  Knightsbridge  headed  him  off,  and,  turn- 
ing, he  came  back.  Big  houses,  signs  of  wealth 
and  prosperity,  seemed  to  hold  him  in  a  charm, 
just  as  he  was  held  by  all  things  pretty,  col- 
oured, or  dazzHng. 

A  glittering  restaurant  drew  him  in  presently, 
and  here  he  had  a  jovial  dinner;  all  alone,  it  is 
true,  but  with  plenty  to  look  at. 

He  had  also  a  half-bottle  of  champagne  and 
a  maraschino. 

He  had  already  consumed  that  day  a  cocktail 
coloured,  two  glasses  of  brandy-and-water  cold 
and  a  half-bottle  of  champagne.  His  ordinary 
consumption  of  alcohol  was  moderate.  A  glass 
of  green-seal  sherry  at  twelve,  and  a  half-bottle 
of  St.  Estephe  at  lunch,  and,  shall  we  say,  a 
small  whisky-and-soda  at  dinner,  or,  if  dining 
out  or  with  guests,  a  couple  of  glasses  of  Pom- 
mery. 

And  to-day  he  had  been  drinking  restaurant 

champagne  "  tres  sec  " — and  two  half-bottles  of 

it !    The  excess  was  beginning  to  tell.    It  told  in 

the  slight  flush  on  his  cheeks,  which,  strange  to 

76 


A  NIGHT  IN  TOWN 

say,  did  not  make  him  look  younger ;  it  told  in 
the  tip  he  gave  the  waiter,  and  in  the  way  he  put 
on  his  hat.  He  had  bought  a  walking-stick 
during  his  peregrinations,  a  dandy  stick  with  a 
tassel — the  passing  fashion  had  just  come  in — 
and  with  this  under  his  arm  he  left  the  cafe  in 
search  of  pleasures  new. 

The  West  End  was  now  ablaze,  and  the 
theatres  filling.  Simon,  like  Poe's  man  of  the 
crowd,  kept  with  the  crowd;  a  blaze  of  lights 
attracted  him  as  a  lamp  a  moth. 

The  Pallaceum  sucked  him  in.  Here,  in  a 
blue  haze  of  tobacco-smoke  and  to  the  tune  of  a 
band,  he  sat  for  awhile  watching  the  show, 
roaring  with  laughter  at  the  comic  turns,  pleased 
with  the  conjuring  business,  and  fascinated — 
despite  Cerise — with  the  girl  in  tights  who  did 
acrobatic  tricks  aided  by  two  poodles  and  a 
monkey. 

Then  he  found  the  bar,  and  there  he  stood 
adding  fuel  to  pleasure,  his  stick  under  his  arm, 
his  hat  tilted  back,  a  new  cigar  in  his  mouth,  and 
a  smile  on  his  face — a  smile  with  a  suggestion  of 
fixity.  Alas!  if  Cerise  could  have  seen  the 
Marquis  de  Grandcourt  now! — or  was  it 
Madame  who  raised  him  to  the  peerage  of 
France?  If  she  could  have  been  by  to  just  raise 
her  eyebrows  at  him!  Yet  she  was  there,  in  a 
77 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

way,  for  the  ladles  of  the  foyer  who  glanced  at 
him  not  unkindly,  taken  perhaps  by  his  bon- 
homie, and  smiling  demeanour  and  atmosphere 
of  wealth  and  enjoyment,  found  no  response. 
Yet  he  found  momentary  acquaintances,  of  a 
sort.  A  couple  of  University  men  up  In  town 
for  a  lark  seemed  to  find  him  part  of  the  lark; 
they  all  drank  together,  exchanged  views,  and 
then  the  University  men  vanished,  giving  place 
to  a  gentleman  In  a  very  polished  hat,  with  dia- 
mond studs,  and  a  face  like  a  hawk,  who  sug- 
gested "  fizz,"  a  small  bottle  of  which  was  con- 
sumed mostly  by  the  hawk,  who  then  vanished, 
leaving  Simon  to  pay. 

Simon  ordered  another,  paid  for  it,  forgot  it, 
and  found  himself  In  the  entrance  hall  calling  In 
a  loud  voice  for  a  hansom. 

A  taxi  was  procured  for  him  and  the  door 
opened.  He  got  Inside  and  said,  "  Wait  a  mo- 
ment— one  moment." 

Then  he  began  paying  half-crowns  to  the 
commissionaire  who  had  opened  the  taxi  door 
for  him.  "That's  for  your  trouble,"  said 
Simon.  "  That's  for  your  trouble.  That's  for 
your  trouble.  Where  am  I?  Oh  yes — shut 
that  confounded  door,  will  you,  and  tell  the 
chap  to  drive  on !  " 

"Whereto,  sir?" 

78 


A  NIGHT  IN  TOWN 

Oppenshaw  would  have  been  interested  in  the 
fact  that  champagne  beyond  a  certain  amount 
had  the  effect  of  wakening  Simon's  remote  past. 
He  answered: 

"  Evans'." 

Consultation  outside. 

"Evans's?  Which  Evans's?  There  ain't  no 
such  'otel,  there  ain't  no  such  bar.  Ask  him 
which  Evans's?  " 

"Which  Evanses  did  you  say,  sir?"  asked 
the  commissionaire,  putting  his  head  in.  "  The 
driver  don't  know  which  you  mean.  Where 
does  it  lay?  " 

He  got  a  chuck  under  the  chin  that  nearly 
drove  his  head  to  the  roof  of  the  taxi. 

Then  Simon's  head  popped  out  of  the  win- 
dow.   It  looked  up  and  down  the  street. 

"  Where's  that  chap  that  put  his  head 
through  the  window?  "  asked  Simon. 

A  small  crowd  and  a  policeman  drew  round. 
"  What  is  it,  sir?  "  asked  the  policeman. 

Simon  seemed  calculating  the  distance  with  a 
view  to  the  bonneting  of  the  enquirer.  Then  he 
seemed  to  find  the  distance  too  far. 

"  Tell  him  to  drive  me  to  the  Argyle  Rooms,'* 
said  he.    Then  he  vanished. 

Another  council  outside,  the  commissionaire 
presiding. 

79 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  Take  him  to  the  Leicester  'Otel.  Why, 
Lord  bless  me  I  the  Argyle  Rooms  has  been 
closed  this  forty  years.  Take  him  round  about 
and  let  him  have  a  snooze." 

The  taximan  started  with  the  full  intention  of 
robbery — not  by  force,  but  by  strategy.  Rob- 
bery on  the  clock.  It  was  not  theatre  turning- 
out  time  yet,  and  he  would  have  the  chance  of 
earning  a  few  dishonest  shillings.  He  turned 
every  corner  he  could,  for  every  time  a  taxi 
turns  a  corner  the  "  clock  "  increases  in  speed. 
He  drove  here  and  there,  but  he  never  reached 
the  Leicester  'Otel,  for  in  Full  Moon  Street, 
the  home  of  bishops  and  earls,  the  noise  inside 
the  vehicle  made  him  halt.  He  opened  the  door 
and  Simon  burst  out,  radiant  with  humour  and 
now  much  steadier  on  his  legs. 

"  How  much?  "  said  Simon,  and  then,  with- 
out waiting  for  a  reply,  thrust  half  a  handful 
of  coppers  and  silver  into  the  fist  of  the  taxi- 
man,  hit  him  a  slap  on  the  top  of  his  flat  cap 
that  made  him  see  stars,  and  walked  off. 

The  man  did  not  pursue,  he  was  counting 
his  takings :  eleven-and-fivepence,  no  less. 

"  Crazy,"  said  he;  then  he  started  his  engine 
and  went  off,  utterly  unconscious  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  entertained  and  driven  some- 
thing worthy  to  be  preserved  in  the  British 
80 


A  NIGHT  IN  TOWN 

Museum — a  real  live  reveller  of  the  sixties. 

The  full  moon  was  shining  on  Full  Moon 
Street,  an  old  street  that  still  preserves  in  front 
of  its  houses  the  sockets  for  the  torches  of  the 
linkmen.  It  does  not  require  much  imagination 
to  see  phantom  sedan  chairs  in  Full  Moon 
Street  on  a  night  like  this,  or  the  watchman  on 
his  rounds,  and  to-night  the  old  street — if  old 
streets  have  memories — must  surely  have  stirred 
in  its  dreams,  for,  as  Simon  went  on  his  way,  the 
night  began  suddenly  to  be  filled  with  cat-calls. 

A  lady  airing  a  Pom  whisked  her  treasure 
into  the  house  as  Simon  passed,  and  shut  the 
door  with  a  bang;  such  a  bang  that  the  knocker 
gave  a  jump  and  Simon  a  hint. 

Ten  yards  further  on  he  went  up  steps, 
paused  before  a  hall  door  that,  in  daylight, 
would  have  been  green,  and  took  the  knocker. 

Just  a  few  turns  of  his  wrist  and  the  knocker 
was  his,  a  glorious  brass  knocker,  weighing  half 
a  pound.  No  other  young  man  in  London  that 
night  could  have  done  the  business  like  that  or 
shown  such  dexterity  in  an  art  lost  as  the  art  of 
pinchbeck-making. 

He  collected  two  more  knockers  in  that 
street,  retaining  only  one  as  a  trophy.  He  threw 
the  others  into  an  area,  pulled  the  house  door- 
bell violently,  and  ran. 

8i 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

In  Berkeley  Square  he  was  just  beginning  to 
deal  with  another  knocker,  when  the  door 
opened  to  an  elderly  woman  of  the  housekeeper 
type  and  a  dachshund. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  asked  the  house- 
keeper. 

"  Does  the  Duke  of  Cu-cu-cumbefland  live 
here?  "  hiccupped  Simon. 

"  No,  sir,  he  does  not." 

"  Sorry — sorry — sorry,''  said  Simon.  "  My 
mistake — entirely  my  mistake.  Very  sorry  to 
trouble  you  indeed.  What  a  pretty  little  dog! 
What's  his  name?  " 

He  was  entirely  affable  now,  and,  forgetful 
of  knockers,  wished  to  strike  up  a  friendship,  a 
desire  unshared  evidently  by  the  lady. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  go  away,"  said  she, 
recognising  a  gentleman  and  mourning  the  fact. 

He  considered  this  proposition  deeply  f^r  a 
moment. 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  said  he,  "  but  where 
am  I  to  go  ?    That's  the  question." 

"  You  had  better  go  home." 

This  seemed  slightly  to  irritate  him. 

*'  Pm  not  going  home — this  time  of  night — 
not  likely."  He  began  to  descend  the  steps  as 
If  to  get  away  from  admonition.  "Not  me; 
you  can  go  home  yourself." 

82 


A  NIGHT  IN  TOWN 

Off  he  went. 

He  walked  three  times  round  Berkeley 
Square.  He  met  a  constable,  enquired  where 
that  .street  ended  and  when,  found  sympathy  in 
return  for  half-crowns,  and  was  mothered  into 
a  straighter  street. 

Half-way  down  the  straighter  street  he  re- 
membered he  hadn't  shown  the  sympathetic 
constable  his  door-knocker,  but  the  policeman, 
fortunately,  had  passed  out  of  sight. 

Then  he  stood  for  awhile  remembering 
Cerise.  Her  vision  had  suddenly  appeared  be- 
fore him;  it  threw  him  into  deep  melancholy — 
profound  melancholy.  He  went  on  till  the 
lights  and  noise  of  Piccadilly  restored  him. 
Then,  further  on,  he  entered  a  flaming  doorway 
through  which  came  the  music  of  a  band* 


«t 


PART  III 


(CHAPTER  i 

THE  LAST  SOVEREIGN 

ON  the  morning  of  the  fourth  of  June, 
the  same  morning  on  which  Simon  had 
broken  like  a  butterfly  from  his 
chrysalis  of  long-moulded  custom  and  stiff 
routine,  Mr.  Bobby  Ravenshaw,  nephew  and 
only  near  relation  of  Simon  Pettigrew,  awoke  in 
his  chambers  in  Pactolus  Mansions,  Piccadilly, 
yawned,  rang  for  his  tea,  and,  picking  up  the 
book  he  had  put  beside  him  on  dropping  toj 
^sleep,  began  to  read.  * 

The  book  was  Monte  Crista.    Now  Pactolus  1 
Mansions,    Piccadilly,    sounds    a    very    grand] 
address,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  a  grand 
address,  but  the  address  is  grander  than  the 
place.     For  one  thing,  it  is  not  in  Piccadilly, ! 
the  approach  is  up  a  dubious  side  street;  the  ^ 
word  "  Pactolus  '*  bears  little  relationship  to  it, 
nor  the  word  "  Mansions,"  and  the  rents  are 
moderate.     Downstairs  there  is  a  restaurant 
and  a  lounge  with  cosy  corners.jy 

.87 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

People  take  chambers  in  Pactolus  Mansions 
and  vanish.  The  fact  is  never  reported  to  the 
Society  for  Psychical  Research,  the  levitation 
being  always  accountable  for  by  solid  reasons. 
To  stop  them  from  vanishing  before  their  rent 
is  paid  they  have  to  pay  their  rent  in  advance. 
No  credit  is  given  under  any  circumstances. 
vThis  seems  hard,  yet  there  are  the  compensating 
advantages  that  the  rent  is  low,  the  service 
good,  and  the  address  taking. 

Bobby  Ravenshaw  had  chosen  to  live  in 
Pactolus  Mansions  because  it  was  the  cheapest 
place  he  could  get  near  the  gayest  place  in  town. 

Bobby  was  an  orphan,  an  Oxford  man  with- 
out a  degree,  and  with  a  taste  for  litera- 
ture and  fine  clothes.  Absolutely  irresponsible. 
Five  hundred  a  year,  derived  from  Simon,  of 
whose  only  sister  he  was  the  son,  and  an  instinct 
for  bridge  that  was  worth  another  two  hundred 
and  fifty  supported  Bobby  in  a  lame  sort  of  way, 
assisted  by  friends,  confiding  tailors  and  boot- 
makers, and  a  genial  moneylender  who  was  also 
a  cigar  merchant. 

Bobby  had  started  in  life  a  year  or  two  ago 
with  cleverness  of  no  mean  order  and  the 
backing  of  money,  but  Fate  had  dealt  him  out 
two  bad  cards :  a  nature  that  was  charming  and 
irresponsible,    and    good    looks.      Girls   wor- 

88 


THE  LAST  SOVEREIGN 

shipped  Bobby,  and  if  his  talents  had  only  cast 
him  on  the  stage  their  worship  might  have 
helped.  As  it  was,  it  hindered,  for  Bobby  was  a 
literary  man,  and  no  girl  has  ever  bought  a  book 
on  the  strength  of  the  good  looks  of  the  author. 

His  tea  having  arrived,  Bobby  drank  it, 
finished  the  chapter  in  Monte  Crista  and 
then  rose  and  dressed. 

He  was  leaving  Pactolus  Mansions  that  day 
for  the  very  good  reason  that,  if  he  wished  to 
stay  beyond  twelve  o'clock,  he  would  have  to 
pay  a  month's  rent  in  advance,  and  he  only  had 
thirty  shillings. 

Uncle  Simon  had  "  foreclosed."  That  was 
Bobby's  expression,  a  month  ago.  For  a  month 
Bobby  had  watched  the  sands  running  down ;  no 
more  money  to  come  in  and  all  the  time  money 
running  out.  Absolutely  unalarmed,  and  only 
noticing  the  fact  as  he  might  have  noticed  a 
change  in  the  weather,  he  had  made  no  provi- 
sion, trusting  to  chance,  to  bridge  that  betrayed 
him,  and  to  friends.  Literature  could  not  help. 
He  had  got  into  a  wrong  groove  as  far  as 
moneymaking  went.  Little  articles  for  literary 
papers  of  limited  circulation  and  a  really  cul- 
tivated taste  are  not  the  immediate  means  to 
financial  support  in  a  world  that  devours  its  fic- 
tional literature  like  ham  sandwiches,  forgotten 

89 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

as  soon  as  eaten — and  only  fictional  literature 
pays. 

He  was  thinking  more  of  Monte  Cristo  than 
of  his  own  position  as  he  dressed.  The  fact  that 
he  had  to  look  out  for  other  rooms  worried  him 
as  an  uncomfortable  business  to  be  performed, 
but  not  much.  If  he  couldn't  get  other  rooms 
that  day  he  could  always  stay  with  Tozer. 
Tozer  was  an  Oxford  man  with  chambers  in  the 
Albany — chambers  always  open  to  Bobby  at 
any  hour.     A  sure  stand-by  In  trouble. 

Then,  having  dressed,  he  took  his  hat  and 
stick  and  the  sovereign  and  half-sovereign  lying 
on  the  mantel,  tipped  the  servant  the  half- 
sovereign,  and  ordered  that  his  things  should 
be  packed  and  his  luggage  taken  to  the  office  to 
be  left  till  he  called  for  it. 

"  I'm  going  to  the  country,"  said  Bobby, 
"  and  I'll  send  my  address  for  letters  to  be 
forwarded." 

Then  he  started. 

He  called  first  at  the  Albany. 

Tozer,  the  son  of  a  big,  defunct  Manchester 
cotton  merchant,  was  a  man  of  some  twenty- 
three  years,  red-haired,  with  a  taste  for  the 
good  things  of  life,  a  taste  for  boxing,  a  taste 
for  music,  and  a  hard  common  sense  that  never 
deserted  him  even  in  his  gayest  and  most  frivo- 
90 


I 


THE  LAST  SOVEREIGN 


lous  moods.  His  chambers  were  newly  fur- 
nished, the  walls  of  the  sitting-room  adorned 
with  old  prints,  mostly  proofs  before  letter; 
boxing  gloves  and  single-sticks  hinted  of  them- 
selves, and  a  violoncello  stood  in  the  corner. 

He  was  at  breakfast  when  Bobby  arrived. 
Tozer  rang  for  another  cup  and  plate. 

"  Tozer,''  said  Bobby,  "  I'm  bust." 

"  Aren't  surprised  to  hear  it,"  replied  Tozer. 
"  Try  these  kippers." 

"  One  single  sovereign  in  the  world,  my  boy, 
and  I'm  hunting  for  new  rooms." 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  old  rooms? 
Have  they  kicked  you  out?  " 

Bobby  explained. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  said  Tozer.  "  YouVe  cut 
the  ground  from  under  your  feet,  staying  at  a 
place  like  that." 

"  It's  not  all  my  fault,  it's  my  relative.  I 
always  boasted  to  him  that  I  paid  my  rent  in 
advance;  he  took  it  as  a  sign  of  wisdom." 

"  What  made  him  go  back  on  you?  " 

"  A  girl." 

"  Which  way?  " 

"  Well,  it  was  this  way.  I  was  staying  with 
the  Huntingdons,  you  know,  the  Warwickshire 
lot." 

"  I  know — ^bridge  and  brandy  crowd." 
91 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

*'  Oh,  they're  all  right.  Well,  I  was  staying 
with  them  when  I  met  her." 

"What's  her  name?" 

"  Alice  Carruthers." 

"  Heave  ahead." 

"  I  got  engaged  to  her;  she  hadn't  a  penny." 

"  Just  like  you." 

"And  her  people  haven't  a  penny,  and  I 
wrote  like  a  fool  telling  the  relative.  He  gave 
me  the  option  of  cutting  her  off  or  being  cut  off. 
It  seems  her  people  were  the  real  obstacle.  He 
wrote  quite  libellous  things  about  them.  I 
refused." 

"  Of  course." 

"  And  he  cut  me  off.    Well,  the  funny  thing 
was  she  cut  me  off  a  week  later,  and  she's  en-  ^ 
gaged  now  to  a  chap  called  Harkness." 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  tell  the  relative  and  : 
make  it  up  ?  " 

"  Tell  him  she'd  fired  me !  Besides,  it's  no 
use,  he'd  just  go  on  to  other  things — ^what  he 
calls  extravagances  and  irresponsibihties." 

"  I  see." 

"  That's  just  how  it  is." 

"  Look  here,  Bobby,"  said  Tozer,  "  you've 
just  got  to  cut  all  this  nonsense  and  get  to  work. 
You've  been  making  a  fool  of  yourself." 

"  I  have,"  said  Bobby,  helping  himself  to 
marmalade. 

92 


THE  LAST  SOVEREIGN 

"  There's  no  use  saying,  *  I  have/  and  then 
forgetting.  I  know  you.  You're  a  good  sort, 
Bobby,  but  you  are  in  the  wrong  set;  you 
couldn't  keep  the  pace.  You've  loads  of  clever- 
ness and  you're  going  to  rot.    Work!  " 

"How?" 

"  Write,"  said  Tozer,  who  believed  In  Bobby 
and  hated  to  see  him  going  to  waste.  "  Write. 
I've  always  been  urging  you  to  settle  down  and 
write." 

"  I  made  five  pounds  ten  last  year  writing," 
said  Bobby. 

"  I  know — articles  on  old  French  poetry  and 
so  on.  You've  got  to  write  fiction.  You  can 
do  it.  That  little  story  you  wrote  for  Tillson's 
was  ripping.'* 

"  The  devil  of  it  Is,"  said  Bobby,  **  I  can't 
find  plots.  I  can  write  all  right  If  I  have  only 
something  to  write  about,  but  I  can't  find 
plots." 

"  That's  rubbish,  and  pure  laziness.  Can't 
find  plots,  with  your  experience  of  London  and 
life!  You've  got  to  find  plots,  and  find  them 
sharp;  It's  the  only  trade  open  to  you.  You 
can  do  it,  and  it  pays.  Now  look  here,  B.  R. 
I'll  finance  you " 

"  Thanks  awfully,"  said  Bobby,  helping  him- 
self to  a  cigarette  from  a  box  on  a  little  table 
near  by. 

93 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  Reserve  your  thanks.  I'm  not  going  to 
finance  a  slacker,  which  you  are  at  present,  but 
a  hard-working  literary  man,  which  you  will  be 
when  I  have  done  with  you.  I  will  give  you  a 
room  here  on  the  strict  conditions  that  you  keep 
early  hours  five  days  a  week." 

"  Yes." 

"  That  you  give  up  bridge." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  fooling  after  girls." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  this  day  set  out  and  find  a  plot  for  a  j 
good,   honest,  payable  piece  of  fiction,  novel  1 
length.    Tm  not  going  to  let  you  off  with  short- 
story  writing." 

"Yes." 

*'  I  know  a  good  publisher,  and  I  will  assure 
you  that  the  thing  shall  be  published  in  the  best 
form,  that  I  will  back  the  advertising  and 
pushing — see?  And  I  will  promise  you  that, 
however  the  thing  turns  out,  you  shall  have  two 
hundred  pounds.  You  will  get  all  profits  if  it 
is  a  success,  understand  me?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  shall  have  Rve  pounds  a  week  pocket- 
money  whilst  you  are  writing,  to  be  repaid  out 
of  profits  if  the  profits  exceed  two  hundred,  not 
to  be  repaid  if  they  don't." 
94 


THE  LAST  SOVEREIGN 

"  I  don't  like  taking  money  for  nothing,"  said 
Bobby. 

"  You  won't  get  it,  only  for  hard  work. 
Besides,  it's  for  my  amusement  and  interest.  I 
believe  in  you,  and  I  want  to  see  my  belief 
justified.  You  need  never  bother  about  taking 
money  from  me.  First,  I  have  plenty;  secondly, 
I  never  give  it  without  a  quid  pro  quo,  the  trad- 
ing instinct  is  too  strong  in  me." 

"  Well,"  said  Bobby,  "  it's  jolly  good  of  you, 
and  I'll  pay  you  the  lot  back,  if " 

Tozer  was  lighting  a  cigarette;  he  flung  the 
match  down  impatiently. 

"  If!  You'll  do  nothing  if  you  begin  with  an 
*  if.'  Now,  make  up  your  mind  quick  without 
any  *  ifs.'    Will  you,  or  won't  you?  " 

"  I  will,"  said  Bobby,  suddenly  catching  on  to 
the  idea  and  taking  fire.  "  I  believe  I  can  do  it 
if " 

"If!  "shouted  Tozer. 

"  I  will  do  it.  I'll  find  a  plot.  I'll  dig  in  my 
brains  right  away — I'll  hunt  round." 

"  Off  with  you,  then,"  said  Tozer,  "  and  send 
your  luggage  here  and  come  back  to-night  with 
your  plot.  You  can  work  in  your  bedroom  and 
you  can  have  all  your  meals  here — I  forgot  to 
include  that.  Now  I'm  going  to  have  a  tune  on 
the  'cello." 

95 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

Bobby  departed  with  a"  light  heart.  His 
position,  before  calling  on  To2;,er,  had  really 
begun  to  weigh  on  him.  Tozer  had  given  him 
even  more  than  the  promise  of  financial  support, 
he  had  given  him  the  backing  of  his  common 
sense.  He  had  "  jawed "  him  mildly,  and 
Bobby  felt  all  the  better  for  it.  It  was  like  a 
tonic.  His  high  spirits  as  he  descended  the 
stairs  increased  with  every  step  taken. 

Bobby  was  no  sponge.  Bridge  and  the  rela- 
tive had  kept  him  going,  and  he  had  always 
managed  to  meet  his  debts,  with  the  exception, 
perhaps,  of  a  tradesman  or  two;  nor  would 
he  have  taken  this  favour  from  any  other 
man  than  Tozer,  and  perhaps  not  even  from 
Tozer  had  it  not  been  accompanied  by  the 
**  jawing." 

So  he  set  out,  light  of  heart,  young,  good- 
looking,  well-dressed,  yet  with  only  a  sovereign, 
to  hunt  through  the  summer  landscape  of  Lon- 
don for  the  plot  for  a  novel. 

Why,  he  was  the  plot  for  a  novel,  or  at  least 
the  beginning  of  one,  had  he  known ! 

He  did  not,  but  he  had  an  intimate  knowledge 
of  Tozer's  fictional  proclivities  and  a  fine  un- 
derstanding of  exactly  what  Tozer  wanted. 
Bones,  ribs,  and  vertebra,  construction — or,  in 
other  words,  story.    Tozer  could  not  be  fubbed 

96 


THE  LAST  SOVEREIGN 

off  with  fine  writing,  with  long  introspective 
chapters  dealing  with  the  boyhood  of  the  author, 
with  sham  psychology  masquerading  as  Fiction ; 
nor,  indeed,  could  Bobby  have  supplied  the  two 
latter  features.  Tozer  wanted  action,  people 
moving  on  their  feet  under  the  dominion  of  the 
author's  purpose,  through  situations,  towards  a 
definite  goal. 

Out  in  Vigo  Street,  and  despite  the  aura  of 
inspiration  around  the  Bodley  Head,  Bobby's 
!■  high  spirits  came  slightly  under  eclipse ;  it  all  at 
once  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  undertaken  a 
task.  In  Cork  Street,  as  he  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  at  the  rare  editions  exposed  in  the 
windows  of  Elkin  Mathews,  this  feeling  grew 
and  put  on  horns. 

A  task  to  Bobby  meant  a  thing  disagreeable 
to  do,  and  the  elegant  volumes  of  minor  poets, 
copies  of  the  Yellow  Book,  and  vellum-bound 
editions  of  belles  lettres  were  saying  to  him, 
"  You've  got  to  write  a  novel,  my  boy,  a  good 
Mudie  novel,  the  sort  of  novel  the  Tozers  of 
life  willpay  for;  no  little  essays  written  with  the 
little  finger  turned  up.  No  modern  verses  like 
your  *  Harmonies  and  Discords,'  that  cost  you 
twenty-five  pounds  to  produce  and  .sold  sixteen 
copies  of  itself,  according  to  last  returns.  You 
have  got  to  be  the  harmonious  blacksmith  now; 
97 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

get  into  your  apron,  get  under  your  spreading 
chestnut-tree,  and  produce." 

In  Bond  Street  he  met  Lord  Billy  Tottenham, 
a  fellow  Oxonian,  who  met  his  death  in  a  mud- 
hole  in  Flanders  the  other  year. 

Lord  Billy,  with  a  boyish,  smug,  but  immov- 
able face  adorned  with  a  tortoiseshell-rimmed 
eyeglass. 

^' Hello,  Bobby! '^  said  Billy. 

"Hello,  Billy!"  said  Bobby. 

"  What's  wrong  with  you?  "  asked  Billy. 

"  Broke  to  the  world,  my  dear  chap." 

"  What  was  the  horse?  "  asked  Billy. 

"  'Twasn't  a  horse — a  girl,  mostly." 

"  Well,  you're  not  the  first  chap  that's  been 
broke  by  a  girl,"  said  Billy.  "  Walk  along  a 
bit — but  it  might  have  been  worse.'* 

"How  so?" 

"  She  might  have  married  you." 

"  Maybe;  but  the  worst  of  it  is  I've  got  to 
work — tuck  up  my  sleeves  and  work." 

"What  at?" 

"  Novel-writing." 

"  Well,  that's  easy  enough,"  said  Billy  cheer- 
fully. "  You  can  easily  get  some  literary  cove 
to  do  the  writing  and  stick  your  name  to  it,  and 
we'll  all  buy  your  books,  my  boy,  we'll  all  buy 
your  books;  not  that  I  ever  read  books  much, 
98 


THE  LAST  SOVEREIGN 

but  ril  buy  'em  if  you  write  'em.     Come  intc 
Jubber's." 

Arm-in-arm  they  entered  Long's  Hotel, 
where  Billy  resided,  and  over  a  mutual  whisky- 
and-soda  they  forgot  books  and  discussed 
horses;  they  lunched  together  and  discussed 
dogs,  girls,  and  mutual  friends.  It  was  like  old 
times  .again,  but  over  the  liqueurs  and  over  the 
cigarette-smoke  suddenly  appeared  to  Bobby  the 
vision  of  Tozer.  He  said  good-bye  to  the  afflu- 
ent one,  and  departed.  "I've  got  to  work," 
said  Bobby. 

His  momentary  lapse  from  the  direction  of 
the  target  only  served  to  pull  him  together,  and 
It  seemed,  now,  as  though  the  luncheon  and  the 
lapse  had  made  things  easier.  He  told  himself 
if  he  hadn't  brains  enough  to  scare  up  some  sort 
of  plot  for  a  six-shilling  novel  he  had  better 
drown  himself.  If  he  couldn't  do  what  hun- 
dreds of  people  with  half  his  knowledge  of  the 
world  and  ability  were  doing  he  would  be  a 
mug  of  the  very  first  water. 

If  anything  depressed  him  it  was  the  horrible 
and  futile  assurance  of  Billy  that  "  his  friends 
would  buy  his  books."  He  went  to  Pactolus 
Mansions  and  ordered  his  luggage  to  be  sent  to 
the  Albany,  then  he  changed  his  sovereign  and 
bought  a  cigar,  then  an  omnibus  gave  him  art 
99 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

inspiration.  He  would  get  on  top  of  an  omnibus 
and  in  that  cool  and  airy  position  do  a  bit  of 
thinking. 

It  was  not  an  original  idea ;  he  had  read,  or 
heard,  of  a  famous  author  who  thought  out  his 
plots  on  the  tops  of  omnibuses — ^but  it  wa-s  an 
idea.  He  clambered  on  to  the  top  of  an  east- 
ward-going bus,  and,  behind  a  fat  lady  with 
bugles  on  her  bonnet,  tried  to  compose  his  mind. 

Why  not  make  a  story  about — Billy?  People 
liked  reading  of  the  aristocracy,  and  Billy  was  a 
character  in  his  way  and  had  many  stories 
attached  to  him.  He  could  start  the  book 
grandly,  simply  out  of  remembered  visions  of 
Lord  William  Tottenham  in  his  gayest  moods. 
L.  W.  T.  emptying  bottles  of  cliquot  into  a 
grand  piano  at  Oxford.  Oxford — ay,  grander 
and  grander — the  book  should  begin  at  Oxford 
with  a  fresh  and  vigorous  picture  of  University 
life.  Tozer  would  come  in,  and  a  host  of 
others;  then,  after  Oxford,  there  was  the  rub. 

The  story  that  had  begun  so  brightly  suddenly 
ceased. 

A  character  and  a  situation  do  not  make  a 
story. 

They  had  reached  the  Bank — as  if  by  deri- 
sion, when  he  told  himself  this.  He  got  off  the 
omnibus  and  got  on  a  westward-bound  one  hark- 

100 


THE  LAST/.SOVEREIGN 

ing  back  to  the  land  he  knew.  He  remembered 
the  expression,  "  racking  one's  brains  to  find 
a  plot."    He  knew  the  meaning  of  it  now. 

At  Piccadilly  Circus,  where  all  the  things 
meet,  a  lanky,  wild-looking,  red-haired  girl  in  a 
picture  hat  and  a  fit  of  abstraction — that  was 
the  impression  she  gave — caught  his  eye.  In  a 
moment  he  was  after  her. 

Here  was  salvation.  Julia  Delyse,  the  last 
catch-on,  whose  books  were  selling  by  the 
hundred  thousand.  He  had  met  her  at  the 
Three  Arts  Ball  and  once  since.  She  had  called 
him  Bobby  the  second  time.  He  had  flirted 
with  her,  as  he  flirted  with  everything  with 
skirts  on,  and  forgotten  her.  She  was  very 
modern;  modern  enough  to  raise  the  hair  on  a 
grandmother's  scalp.    Her  looks  were  to  match. 

"Hello,"   said  he. 

"  Hello,  Bobby,"  said  Julia. 

"  You  are  just  the  person  I  want  to  see,"  said 
Bobby. 

"  How's  that?  "  said  Julia. 

**  I'm  in  a  {ix^ 

"What  sort  of  fix?" 

"  I've  got  to  write  a  novel." 

"  What's  the  hurry?  "  asked  Julia. 

"  Money,"  said  Bobby. 

**  Make  money?  " 

lOI 


THE  MAN  V^nO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  Yes." 

"If  you  write  for  money  you're  lost,"  said 
Julia. 

"  Fm  lost  anyway,"  replied  Bobby.  "  Where 
are  you  going  to?  " 

"  Home;  my  flat's  close  by.  Come  and  have 
some  tea." 

"I  don't  mind.  Well  now,  see  here;  I've 
got  to  do  it  and  I  can't  find  anything  to  write 
about." 

"  With  all  London  before  you?  " 

"  I  know,  but  when  I  start  to  think  it  all  gets 
behind  me.  I  want  you  to  start  me  with  some 
idea;  you're  full  of  ideas  and  you  know  the 
ropes." 

They  had  reached  the  flat,  and  the  lady  with 
ideas  ushered  him  in. 

The  sitting-room  was  in  a  scheme  of  black 
with  Japanese  effects;  she  offered  cigarettes,  lit 
one  herself,  and  tea  was  brought  in. 

Then  the  hypnotism  began. 

The  fact  that  she  was  a  "  famous  authoress  " 
would  not  have  mattered  a  button  to  Bobby 
yesterday;  to-day,  on  his  new  strange  road,  it 
lent  her  a  charm  that  completed  the  fascination 
of  her  wondrous  eyes.  They  seemed  wild  in  the 
street,  but  when  she  looked  at  one  intensively 
they  were  wonderful.    Plots  were  forgotten,  and 

102 


THE  LAST  SOVEREIGN 

in  the  twilight  Bobby's  full,  musical  voice  might 
have  been  heard  discussing  literature — with 
long  pauses. 
I  "  Dear  old  thing.  ...  Is  that  cushion 
comfy?  .  .  .  Oh,  bother  the  girl  and  the  tea- 
things  !  .  .  .  Just  put  your  head  so — so.  .  .  ." 
He  had  been  hooked  twenty  times  by  girls  and 
pulled  off  the  hook  by  parents  or  been  thrown 
back  by  the  fisherwoman  on  inspecting  his  bank 
balance,  but  he  had  never  been  hooked  like  this 
before,  for  Julia  had  no  parents  to  speak  of; 
she  was  above  bank  balances,  and  her  grip  was 
of  iron  where  passion  was  concerned,  and  pub- 
lishers. Her  publishers  could  have  told  you 
that  by  the  way  she  gripped  her  rights  when 
they  tried  to  cheat  her  of  them,  for,  despite  her 
wondrous  eyes  and  wild  air  and  the  fact  that  she 
was  a  genius,  she  was  practical  as  well  as  tena- 
cious in  hold. 

Then,  at  the  end  of  the  seance,  Bobby  found 
himself  leaving  the  flat  a  semi-tied-up  man. 
He  couldn't  remember  whether  he  had  proposed 
to  her  or  she  to  him,  or  whether  either  of  them 
had  proposed  or  actually  accepted,  but  there 
was  a  tie  between  them,  a  tie  slight  enough  and 
not  binding  in  any  court;  less  an  engagement 
than  an  attachment  formed,  so  he  told  himself. 
He  remembered  in  the  street,  however,  that  a 
.103 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

tie  between  him  and  an  authoress  was  not  what 
Tozer  wanted ;  he  had  received  no  plot  or  even 
literary  hint.  Had  he  retained  his  clear  senses 
during  the  seance,  and  had  he  possessed  a  know- 
ledge of  Julia  Delyse's  brilliant  and  cynical 
books,  he  might  have  wondered  where  the  bril- 
liancy and  cynicism  came  from.  In  love,  Julia 
was  absolutely  unliterary — -and  a  bit  heavy — 
clinging,  as  it  were. 

The  momentary  idea  of  running  back  to  ask 
for  the  forgotten  plot,  as  for  a  hat  left  behind, 
was  dispelled  by  this  sudden  feeling  that  she 
was  heavy. 

Under  the  fascination  of  her  eyes  and  in  that 
weird  room  she  seemed  light;  in  St.  James's 
Street,  where  he  now  was,  she  seemed  heavy. 
And  he  would  have  to  go  on  with  the  attachment 
for  awhile  or  be  a  brute.  That  recognition,  with 
the  remembrance  of  Tozer  and  a  recognition  of 
his  failure  in  his  search  for  the  one  essential 
thing,  depressed  him  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
determined  to  forget  about  everything  and  go 
and  have  dinner.  In  other  words,  failing  In  his 
search  for  the  thing  he  wanted,  he  stopped 
searching,  leaving  the  matter  in  the  hands  of 
blind  chance. 


1IO4 


CHAPTER  II 


UNCLE  SIMON 


OR  fate,  if  you  like  it  better,  for  it  was 
fated  that  Bobby  should  find  that  day 
the  thing  he  was  in  search  of. 

He  dined  at  a  little  club  he  patronised  in  a 
street  off  St.  Jameses  Street,  met  a  friend  named 
Foulkes,  and  adjourned  to  the  Alhambra, 
Foulkes  insisting  on  doing  all  the  paying. 

They  left  the  Alhambra  at  half-past  ten. 

*'  I  must  be  getting  back  to  the  Albany,"  said 
Bobby.  "  I'm  sharing  rooms  with  a  chap,  and 
he's  an  early  bird." 

"  Oh,  let  him  wait,"  said  Foulkes.  "  Come 
along  for  ten  minutes  to  the  Stage  Club." 

They  went  to  the  Stage  Club.  Then,  the 
place  being  empty  and  little  amusement  to  be 
found  there,  they  departed,  Foulkes  declaring 
his  determination  to  see  Bobby  part  of  the  way 
home. 

Passing  a  large  entrance  hall  blazing  with 
light  and  filled  with  the  noise  of  a  distant  band, 
Foulkes  stopped. 

105 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  Come  in  here  for  a  moment,"  said  he.  In 
they  went. 

The  place  was  gay — ^very  gay.  Little  marble- 
topped  tables  stood  about;  French  waiters  run- 
ning from  table  to  table  and  serving  guests — 
ladies  and  gentlemen. 

At  a  long  glittering  bar  many  men  were 
standing,  and  a  Red  Hungarian  Band  was  dis- 
coursing scarlet  music. 

Foulkes  took  a  table  and  ordered  refresh- 
ment. The  place  wa5  horrid.  One  could  not 
tell  exactly  what  there  was  about  it  that  went 
counter  to  all  the  finer  feelings  and  the  sense  of 
home,  simplicity,  and  happiness. 

Bobby,  rather  depressed,  felt  this,  but 
Foulkes,  a  man  of  tougher  fibre,  seemed  quite 
happy. 

"What  ails  you,  Ravenshaw?"  asked 
Foulkes. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Bobby.  "  No,  I  won't  have 
any  more  to  drink.     I've  work  to  do " 

Then  he  stopped  and  stared  before  him  with 
eyes  wide. 

"  What  is  it  now?  "  asked  Foulkes. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  said  Bobby.  "  Look  at  that 
chap  at  the  bar !  " 

"Which  one?" 

"  The  one  with  the  straw  hat  on  the  back  of 
io6 


UNCLE  SIMON 

his  head.  It  can't  be — ^but  it  is — it's  the  Rela- 
tive." 

''  The  one  you  told  me  of  that  fired  you  out 
and  cut  you  off  with  a  shilling?  " 

"  Yes.  Uncle  Simon.  No,  it's  not,  it  can't 
be.    It  is,  though,  in  a  straw  hat  J* 

"  And  squiffy,"  said  Foulkes. 

Bobby  got  up  and,  leaving  the  other,  strolled 
to  the  bar  casually.  The  man  at  the  bar  was 
toying  with  a  glass  of  soda-water  supplied  to 
him  on  sufferance.  Bobby  got  close  to  him. 
Yes,  that  was  the  right  hand  with  the  white 
scar — got  when  a  young  man  "  hunting  " — and 
the  seal  ring. 

The  last  time  Bobby  had  met  Uncle  Simon 
was  in  the  office  in  Old  Serjeants'  Inn.  Uncle 
Simon,  seated  at  his  desk-table  with  his  back  to 
the  big  John  Tann  safe,  had  been  in  bitter 
mood;  not  angry,  but  stern.  Bobby  seated  be- 
fore him,  hat  in  hand,  had  offered  no  apologies 
or  exculpations  for  his  conduct  with  girls,  for 
his  stupid  engagement,  for  his  idleness.  He  had 
many  bad  faults,  but  he  never  denied  them,  nor 
did  he  seek  to  minimise  them  by  explanations 
and  lies. 

*'  I  tried  to  float  you,"  had  said  Uncle  Simon, 
as  though  Bobby  were  a  company.  "  I  have 
failed.  Well,  I  have  done  my  duty,  and  I 
107 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

clearly  see  that  I  will  not  be  doing  my  duty  by 
continuing  as  I  have  done ;  the  allowance  I  have 
made  you  is  ended.  You  will  now  have  to  swim 
for  yourself.  I  should  never  have  put  money 
in  your  hands;  I  quite  see  that." 

"  I  can  make  my  own  living,"  said  Bobby.  '*  I 
am  not  without  gratitude  for  what  you  have 
done " 

"  And  a  nice  way  you  have  shown  your 
gratitude,"  said  the  other,  "  tangling  yourself 
like  that — gaming,  frequenting  bars." 

So  the  interview  had  ended.  Frequenting 
bars! 

"  Uncle  Simon !  "  said  Bobby  half-nervously, 
touching  the  other  on  the  arm. 

Uncle  Simon  swung  slowly  round.  Bobby 
might  have  been  King  Canute  for  all  Uncle 
Simon  knew.  He  had  got  beyond  the  stage 
where  the  word  "  uncle  "  from  a  stranger  would 
have  aroused  ire  or  surprise. 

"  H'are  you?"  said  Simon.  "Have  a 
drink?" 

Yes,  it  was  Uncle  Simon  right  enough,  and 
Bobby,  in  all  his  life,  had  never  received  such  a 
shock  as  that  which  came  to  him  now  with  the 
full  recognition  of  the  fact.  St.  Paul's  Cathedral 
turned  into  a  gambling-shop,  the  Bishop  of 
London  dressed  as  a  clown,  would  have  been 
io8 


UNCLE  SIMON 

nothing  to  this.  He  was  horrified.  He  came  to 
the  swift  conclusion  that  Uncle  Simon  had  come 
to  smash  somehow,  and  gone  mad.  A  vague  idea 
flew  through  his  mind  that  his  respected  relative 
was  dressed  like  this  as  a  disguise  to  avoid 
creditors,  but  he  had  sense  enough  not  to  ask 
questions. 

*'  I  don't  mind,"  said  he;  "  Fll  have  a  small 
soda." 

"  Small  grandmother,"  said  the  other;  then, 
nodding  to  the  bar-tender,  "  'Nother  same  as 
mine." 

"  What  have  you  been  doing?  "  asked  Bobby 
vaguely,  as  he  took  the  glass. 
I     "  Roun*  the  town — roun'  the  town,"  replied 
the  other.     "  Gl'd  to  meet  you.     WhatVe  you 
been  doin'  ?  " 
^    "  Oh,  IVe  just  been  going  round  the  town.'* 
P    "  Roun'  the  town,  that's  the  way — roun'  the 
town,"  replied  the  other.     "  Roun'  an'  roun' 
and  roun'  the  town." 

Foulkes  broke  into  this  intellectual  discussion. 

"  I'm  off,"  said  Foulkes. 

"  Stay  a  minit,"  said  Uncle  Simon.  "  What'U 
you  have?  " 

"  Nothing,  thanks,"  said  Foulkes. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Bobby,  taking  the  arm  of 
his  relative. 

109 


[THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  W*ere  to?  "  asked  the  other,  hanging  back 
slightly. 

"  Oh,  we'll  go  round  the  town — round  and 
round.  Come  on."  Then  to  Foulkes,  "  Get  a 
taxi,  quick  I  " 

Foulkes  vanished  towards  the  door. 

Then  Simon,  falling  in  with  the  round-the- 
town  idea,  arm-in-arm,  the  pair  threaded  their 
way  between  the  tables,  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes, 
Simon  exhibiting  dispositions  to  stop  and  chat 
with  seated  and  absolute  strangers,  Bobby  per- 
spiring and  blushing.  All  the  lectures  on  fast 
living  he  had  ever  endured  were  nothing  to  this; 
the  shame  of  folly,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
appeared  definitely  before  him,  and  the  relief  of 
the  street  and  the  waiting  taxi  beyond  words. 

They  bundled  Simon  in. 

"No.  12,  King  Charles  Street,  Westmin- 
ster," said  Bobby  to  the  driver. 

Uncle  Simon's  head  and  bust  appeared  at  the 
door  of  the  vehicle,  the  address  given  by  Bobby 
seeming  to  have  paralysed  the  round-the-town 
idea  in  his  mind. 

"  Ch'ing  Cross  Hotel,"  said  he.  "  Wach 
you  mean  givin'  wrong  address?  I'm  staying 
Ch'ing  Cross  Hotel." 

"Well,  let's  go  to  Charles  Street  first,'' 
agreed  Bobby. 

no 


UNCLE  SIMON 

"  No — Ch'Ing  Cross  Hotel — ^luggage  waitin' 
there." 

Bobby  paused. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  this  was  the  truth? 
It  couldn't  be  stranger  than  the  truth  before  him. 

"  All  right,"  said  he.  "  Charing  Cross  Ho- 
tel, driver." 

He  said  good-bye  to  Foulkes,  got  in,  and  shut 
the  door. 

Uncle  Simon  seemed  asleep. 

The  Charing  Cross  Hotel  was  only  a  very 
short  distance  away,  and  when  they  got  there 
Bobby,  leaving  the  sleeping  one  undisturbed, 
hopped  out  to  make  enquiries  as  to  whether  a 
Mr.  Pettigrew  was  staying  there;  if  not,  he 
could  go  on  to  Charles  Street. 

In  the  hall  he  found  the  night  porter  and 
Mudd. 

"  Good  heavens !  Mr.  Robert,  what  are  you 
doing  here?  "  said  Mudd. 

Bobby  took  Mudd  aside. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  my  uncle,  Mudd?  " 
asked  Bobby  in  a  tragic  half-whisper. 

"  Matter !  "  said  Mudd,  wildly  alarmed. 
"What's  he  been  a-doing  of?" 

"  I've  got  him  in  a  cab  outside,"  said  Bobby. 

"  Oh,  thank  God!  "  said  Mudd.  "  He's  not 
hurt,  is  he?" 

Ill 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF. 

"  No ;  only  three  sheets  in  the  wind." 

Mudd  broke  away  for  the  door,  followed  by 
the  other. 

Simon  was  still  asleep. 

They  got  him  out,  and  between  them  they 
brought  him  in,  Bobby  paying  the  fare  with  the 
last  of  his  sovereign. 

Arrived  at  the  room,  Mudd  turned  on  the 
electric  light,  and  then,  between  them,  they  got 
the  reveller  to  bed.  Folding  his  coat,  Mudd, 
searching  in  the  pockets,  found  a  brass  door- 
knocker. "Good  Lord!"  murmured  Mudd. 
"  He's  been  a-takin'  of  knockers." 

He  hid  the  knocker  in  a  drawer  and  pro- 
ceeded. Two  pounds  ten  was  all  the  money  to 
be  found  in  the  clothes,  but  Simon  had  retained 
his  watch  and  chain  by  a  miracle. 

Bobby  was  astonished  at  Simon's  pyjamas, 
taken  out  of  a  drawer  by  Mudd;  blue  and 
yellow  striped  silk,  no  less. 

"  He'll  be  all  right  now,  and  I'll  have  another 
look  at  him,"  said  Mudd.  "  Come  down,  Mr. 
Robert." 

"  Mudd,"  said  Bobby,  when  they  were  in  the 
hall  again,  "  what  is  it?  " 

"He's  gone,"  said  Mudd;  "gone  in  the 
head." 

"Mad?" 


UNCLE  SIMON 

"  No,  not  mad;  it*s  a  temporary  abrogation. 
Some  of  them  new  diseases,  the  doctor  says.  It's 
his  youth  come  back  on  him,  grown  like  a  wis- 
dom tooth.  Yesterday  he  was  as  right  as  you 
or  me ;  this  morning  he  started  off  for  the  office 
as  right  as  myself.  It  must  have  struck  him 
sudden.  Same  thing  happened  last  year  and 
he  got  over  it.    It  took  a  month,  though." 

"  Good  heavens!  "  said  Bobby.  "  I  met  him 
in  a  bar,  by  chance.  If  he's  going  on  like  this 
for  a  month  you'll  have  your  work  cut  out  for 
you,  Mudd." 

"  There's  no  name  to  it,"  said  Mudd.  "  Mr. 
Robert,  this  has  to  be  kept  close  in  the  family 
and  away  from  the  office;  you've  got  to  help 
with  him." 

"  I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Bobby  unenthusiasti- 
cally, "  but,  hang  it,  Mudd,  I've  got  my  living  to 
make  now.  I've  no  time  to  hang  about  bars 
and  places,  and  if  to-night's  a  sample " 

"  We've  got  to  get  him  away  to  the  country 
or  somewhere,"  said  Mudd,  ''  else  it  means  ruin 
to  the  business  and  Lord  knows  what  all.  It's 
got  to  be  done,  Mr.  Robert,  and  you've  got  to 
help,  being  the  only  relative." 

"  Couldn't  that  doctor  man  take  care  of 
him?" 

"Not  he,"  said  Mudd;  "he's  given  me  in- 

113 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

structions.  The  master  is  just  to  be  let  alone 
in  reason ;  any  thwarting  or  checking  might  send 
him  clean  off.    He's  got  to  be  led,  not  driven." 

Bobby  whistled  softly  and  between  his  teeth. 
He  couldn't  desert  Uncle  Simon.  He  never  re- 
membered that  Uncle  Simon  had  deserted  him 
for  just  such  conduct,  or  even  less,  for  Bobby, 
stupid  as  he  was,  had  rarely  descended  to  the 
position  he  had  found  Uncle  Simon  in  a  little 
while  ago. 

Bobby  was  young,  generous,  forgetful  and 
easy  to  forgive,  so  the  fact  that  the  Relative  had 
deserted  him  and  cut  him  off  with  a  shilling 
never  occurred  to  his  open  soul  at  this  critical 
moment. 

Uncle  Simon  had  to  be  looked  after.  He  felt 
the  truth  of  Mudd's  words  about  the  office.  If 
this  thing  were  known  it  would  knock  the  busi- 
ness to  pieces.  Bobby  was  no  fool,  and  he  knew 
something  of  Simon's  responsibihties;  he  ad- 
ministered estates,  he  had  charge  of  trust- 
money,  he  was  the  most  respected  solicitor  in 
London.  Heavens !  if  this  were  known,  what  a 
rabbit-run  for  frightened  clients  Old  Serjeants* 
Inn  would  become  within  twenty-four  hours  I 

Then,  again,  Bobby  was  a  Ravenshaw.  The 
Ravenshaws  were  much  above  the  Pettigrews. 
The  Ravenshaws  were  a  proud  race,  and  the  old 
114 


UNCLE  SIMON 

Admiral,  his  father,  who  lost  all  his  money  in 
Patagonlan  Bonds,  was  the  proudest  of  the  lot, 
and  he  had  handed  his  pride  to  his  son. 

Yes,  leaving  even  the  office  aside,  Uncle 
Simon  must  be  looked  after. 

Now  if  U.  S.  had  been  a  lunatic  the  task 
would  have  been  abominable  but  simple,  but  a 
man  who  had  suddenly  developed  extraordinary 
youth,  yet  was,  so  the  doctor  said,  sane — a  man 
who  must  be  just  humoured  and  led — ^was  a 
worse  proposition. 

Playing  bear-leader  to  a  young  fool  was  an 
entirely  different  thing  to  being  a  young  fool 
oneself.  Even  his  experience  of  an  hour  ago 
told  Bobby  this;  that  short  experience  was  his 
first  sharp  lesson  in  the  disgustingness  of  folly. 
He  shied  at  the  prospect  of  going  on  with  the 
task.  But  Uncle  Simon  must  be  looked  after. 
He  couldn't  get  over  or  under  that  fence. 

"  Well,  I'll  do  what  I  can,"  said  he.  "  I'll 
come  round  to-morrow  morning.  But  see  here, 
Mudd,  where  does  he  get  his  money  from?  " 

"  He's  got  ten  thousand  pounds  somewhere 
hid,"  said  Mudd. 

"  Ten  thousand  what?  " 

"  Pounds.  Ten  thousand  pounds  somewhere 
hid.  The  doctor  told  me  he  had  it.  He  drew 
the  same  last  year  and  spent  five  in  a  month." 
115 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  Five  pounds?  " 

"  Five  thousand,  Mr.  Robert." 

"  Five  thousand  in  a  month!  I  say,  this  is 
serious,  Mudd." 

"Oh,  Lord!  Oh,  Lord!*^  said  Mudd. 
"  Don't  tell  me — I  know — and,  me,  Fve  been 
working  forty  years  for  live  hundred." 

"  He  couldn't  have  taken  it  out  with  him 
to-day,  do  you  think?  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Robert,  I  don't  think  he's  as  far 
gone  as  that.  He's  always  been  pretty  close 
with  his  money,  and  closeness  sticks,  abrogation 
or  no  abrogation;  but  it's  not  the  money  Fm 
worritin'  so  much  about  as  the  women." 

"What  women?" 

"  Them  that's  always  looking  out  for  such  as 
he." 

"  Well,  we  must  coosh  them  off,"  said  Bobby. 

"  You'll  be  here  in  the  morning,  Mr.  Rob- 
ert?" 

"  Yes,  ril  be  here,  and,  meanwhile,  keep  an 
eye  on  him." 

"  Oh,  Fll  keep  an  eye  on  him,"  said  Mudd. 

Then  the  yawning  night  porter  saw  this  weird 
conference  close,  Mudd  going  off  upstairs  and 
Bobby  departing,  a  soberer  and  wiser  young 
man  even  than  when  he  had  entered. 

It  was  late  when  he  reached  the  Albany. 
ii6 


UNCLE  SIMON 

Tozer  was  sitting  up,  reading  a  book  on  counter- 
point. 

"  Well,  what  luck?  "  asked  Tozer,  pleased  at 
the  other's  gravity  and  sobriety. 

"  I've  found  a  plot,"  said  Bobby;  "  at  least, 
the  middle  of  one,  but  it's  tipsy." 

"Tipsy?" 

"It's  my — Tozer,  this  is  a  dead  secret  be- 
tween you  and  me — it's  my  Relative." 

"Your  uncle?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean?  " 

Bobby  explained. 

Tozer  made  some  tea  over  a  spirit  lamp  as  he 
listened,  then  he  handed  the  other  a  cup. 

"  That's  interesting,"  said  he,  as  he  sat  down 
again  and  filled  a  pipe.     "  That's  interesting." 

"  But  look  here,"  said  the  other,  "  do  you 
believe  it?  Can  a  man  get  young  again  and 
forget  everything  and  go  on  like  this?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Tozer,  "  but  I  believe 
he  can — and  he  seems  to  be  doing  it,  don't  he?  " 

"  He  does;  we  found  a  knocker  in  his  coat 
pocket." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  a  what?  " 

"  A  door-knocker;  he  must  have  wrung  it  off 
a  door  somewhere,  a  big  brass  one,  like  a  lion's 
head." 

117 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"How  old  Is  he?" 

"Uncle?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Sixty." 

Tozer  calculated. 

"  Forty  years  ago — ^yes,  the  young  chaps 
about  town  were  still  ringing  door-knockers 
then;  It  was  going  out,  but  I  had  an  uncle  who 
did  It.  This  Is  Interesting."  Then  he  exploded. 
He  had  never  seen  Simon  the  solicitor,  or  his 
mirth  might  have  been  louder. 

"  It's  very  easy  to  laugh,"  said  Bobby,  rather 
huffed,  "  but  you  would  not  laugh  if  you  were  in 
my  shoes — IVe  got  to  look  after  him." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Tozer.  "  Now 
let  me  be  serious.  Whatever  happens,  you  have 
got  a  fine  ficelle  for  a  story.  Fm  In  earnest;  it 
only  wants  working  out." 

"  Oh,  good  heavens !  "  said  Bobby.  "  Does 
one  eat  one's  grandmother?  And  how  am  I  to 
write  stories  tied  like  this?  " 

"  He'll  write  It  for  you,"  said  Tozer,  "  or 
I'm  greatly  mistaken,  if  you  only  hang  on  and 
give  him  a  chance.  He's  begun  it  for  you. 
And  as  for  eating  your  grandmother,  uncles 
aren't  grandmothers,  and  you  can  change  his 
name." 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  I  could,"  said  Bobby. 
ii8 


UNCLE  SIMON 

"  The  terror  rm  in  is  lest  his  name  should  come 
out  in  some  mad  escapade/' 

"  I  expect  he's  been  in  the  same  terror  of 
you,"  said  Tozer,  "  many  a  time.'' 

"  Yes,  but  I  hadn't  an  office  to  look  after 
and  a  big  business." 

"  Well,  you've  got  one  now,"  said  Tozer, 
"  and  it  will  teach  you  responsibility,  Bobby; 
it  will  teach  you  responsibility." 

"  Hang  responsibility!  " 

"I  know;  that's  what  your  uncle  has  often 
said,  no  doubt.  Responsibility  is  the  only  thing 
that  steadies  men,  and  the  sense  of  it  is  the 
grandfather  of  all  the  other  decent  senses. 
You'll  be  a  much  better  man  for  this,  Bobby,  or 
my  name  is  not  Tozer." 

"  I  wish  it  were  Ravenshaw,"  said  Bobby. 
Then  remembrance  made  him  pause. 

"  I  ought  to  tell  you "  said  he,  then  he 

stopped. 

"Well?"  said  Tozer. 

"  I  promised  you  to  stop — ^um — fooling  after 
girls." 

"  That  means,  I  expect,  that  you  have  been 
doing  it." 

''  Not  exactly,  and  yet " 

"  Go  on." 

Bobby  explained. 

119 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"Well,"  said  Tozer,  "  I  forgive  you.  It  was 
good  intent  spoiled  by  atavism.  You  returned 
to  your  old  self  for  a  moment,  like  your  Uncle 
Simon.  Do  you  know,  Bobby,  I  believe  this 
disease  of  your  uncle's  is  more  prevalent  than 
one  would  imagine — ^though  of  course  In  a  less 
acute  form.  We  are  all  of  us  always  returning 
to  our  old  selves,  by  fits  and  starts — and  paying 
for  the  return.  You  see  what  you  have  done 
to-day.  Your  Uncle  Simon  has  done  nothing 
more  foolish,  you  both  found  your  old  selves. 

"  Lord,  that  old  self !  All  the  experience  and 
wisdom  of  the  world  don't  head  It  off,  it  seems 
to  me,  when  It  wants  to  return.  Well,  youVe 
done  It,  and  when  you  write  your  story  you  can 
put  yourself  In  as  well  as  your  uncle,  and  call 
the  whole  thing,  *  A  Horrible  Warning.'  Good 
night." 


1 20 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    HUNDRED-POUND  NOTE 

UNCLE  SIMON  awoke  consumed  by 
thirst,    but    without    a    headache;    a 
good  constitution  and  years  of  regular 
life  had  given  him  a  large  balance  to  draw 
upon. 
fe       Mudd  was  in  the  room  arranging  things ;  he 
had  just  drawn  up  the  blind. 
"Who's  that?"  asked  Simon. 
"  Mudd,"  replied  the  other. 
Mudd's  tout  ensemble  as  a  new  sort  of  hotel 
servant  seemed  to  please  Simon,  and  he  accepted 
him  at  once   as  he  accepted  everything  that 
pleased  him. 
m      "  Give  me  that  water-bottle,"  said  Simon. 
P       Mudd  gave  it.     Simon  half-drained  it  and 
handed  it  back.    The  draught  seemed  to  act  on 
him  like  the  elixir  vitas. 

"  What  are  you  doing  with  those  clothes?  " 
said  he. 

"  Oh,  just  folding  them,"  said  Mudd. 

121 


PTHE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  Well,  just  leave  them  alone/'  replied  the 
other.     "  Is  there  any  money  In  the  pockets?  " 

"  These  aren't  what  you  wore  last  night,'* 
said  Mudd;  "  there  was  two  pounds  ten  In  the 
pockets  of  what  you  had  on.  Here  It  Is,  on  the 
mantel." 

"  Good,"  said  Simon. 

"  Have  you  any  more  money  anywhere 
about?"  asked  Mudd. 

Now  Simon,  spendthrift  in  front  of  pleasure 
and  heedless  of  money  as  the  wind,  in  front  of 
Mudd  seemed  cautious  and  a  bit  suspicious.  It 
was  as  though  his  subliminal  mind  recognised  in 
Mudd  restraint  and  guardianship  and  common 
sense. 

"  Not  a  halfpenny,"  said  he.  "  Give  me  that 
two  pounds  ten." 

Mudd,  alarmed  at  the  vigour  of  the  other, 
put  the  money  on  the  little  table  by  the  bed. 

Simon  was  at  once  placated. 

"  Now  put  me  out  some  clothes,"  said  he. 
He  seemed  to  have  accepted  Mudd  now  as  a 
personal  servant — ^hlred  when  ?  Heaven  knows 
when;  details  like  that  were  nothing  to  Simon. 

Mudd,  marvelling  and  sorrowing,  put  out  a 
suit  of  blue  serge,  a  blue  tie,  a  shirt  and  other 
things  of  silk.  There  was  a  bathroom,  off  the 
bedroom,  and,  the  things  put  out,  Simon  arose 

122 


THE  HUNDRED-POUND  NOTE 

and  wandered  Into  the  bathroom,  and  Mudd, 
taking  his  seat  on  a  chair,  listened  to  him  tub- 
bing and  splashing — whistling,  too,  evidently 
in  the  gayest  spirits,  spirits  portending  another 
perfect  day. 

"  Lead  him,"  had  said  Oppenshaw.  Why, 
Mudd  already  was  being  led.  There  was  some- 
thing about  Simon,  despite  his  Irresponsibility 
and  good  humour,  that  would  not  brook  a  halter 
even  If  the  halter  were  of  silk.  Mudd  recog- 
nised that.  And  the  money!  What  liad  be- 
come of  the  money?  The  locked  portmanteau 
might  contain  It,  but  where  was  the  key? 

Mudd  did  not  even  know  whether  his  un- 
happy master  had  recognised  him  or  not,  and  he 
dared  not  ask,  fearing  complications.  But  he 
knew  that  Simon  had  accepted  him  as  a  servant, 
and  that  knowledge  had  to  suffice. 

If  Simon  had  refused  him,  and  turned  him 
out,  that  would  have  been  a  tragedy  Indeed. 

Simon,  re-entering  the  bedroom,  bath  towel 
in  hand,  began  to  dress,  Mudd  handing  things 
which  Simon  took  as  though  half  oblivious  of 
the  presence  of  the  other.  He  seemed  engaged 
in  some  happy  vein  of  thought. 

Dressed  and  smart,  but  unshaved,  though 
scarcely  showing  the  fact,  Simon  took  the  two 
pounds  ten  and  put  it  in  his  pocket,  then  he 
J  23 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

looked  at  Mudd.  His  expression  had  changed 
somewhat;  he  seemed  working  out  some  prob- 
lem in  his  mind. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  he;  "  I  won't  want  you 
any  more  for  a  few  minutes.  I  want  to  arrange 
things.  You  can  go  down  and  come  back  in  a 
few  minutes." 

Mudd  hesitated.    Then  he  went. 

He  heard  Simon  lock  the  door.  He  went 
into  an  adjoining  corridor  and  walked  up  and 
down,  dumbly  praying  that  Mr.  Robert  would 
come — confused,  agitated,  wondering.  .  .  . 
Suppose  Simon  wanted  to  be  alone  to  cut  his 
throat!  The  horror  of  this  thought  was  dis- 
pelled by  the  recollection  that  there  were  no 
razors  about ;  also  by  the  remembered  cheerful- 
ness of  the  other.  But  why  did  he  want  to  be 
alone  ? 

Two  minutes  passed,  three,  five — then  the 
intrigued  one,  making  for  the  closed  door, 
turned  the  handle.  The  door  was  unlocked,  and 
Simon,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  was 
himself  again. 

*'  I've  got  a  message  I  want  you  to  take," 
said  Simon. 

Ten  minutes  later  Mr.  Robert  Ravenshaw, 
entering  the  Charing  Cross  Hotel,  found  Mudd 
with  his  hat  on,  waiting  for  him. 
124 


THE  HUNDRED-POUND  NOTE 

"  Thank  the  Lord  you've  come,  Mr.  Rob* 
erti  "  said  Mudd. 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  asked  Bobby. 
"Where  is  he?" 

"  He's  having  breakfast,"  said  Mudd. 

"  Well,  that's  sensible,  anyhow.  Cheer  up, 
Mudd;  why,  you  look  as  if  you'd  swallowed  a 
funeral." 

"It's  the  money,"  said  Mudd.  Then  he 
burst  out,  "  He  told  me  to  go  from  the  room 
and  come  back  in  a  minit.  Out  I  went,  and  he 
locked  the  door.  Back  I  came;  there  was  he 
standing.  *  Mudd,'  said  he,  *  I've  got  a  message 
for  you  to  take.  I  want  you  to  take  a  bunch  of 
flowers  to  a  lady.'    Me  I  " 

"Yes?  "said  Bobby. 

"To  a  lady!" 

"  *  Where's  the  flowers?  *  said  I,  wishing  to 
head  him  off.  *  You're  to  go  and  buy  them,' 
said  he.  '  I  have  no  money,'  said  I,  wishing  to 
head  him  off.  *  Hang  money!  '  said  he,  and  he 
puts  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  out  he  brings  a 
hundred-pound  note  and  a  ten-pound  note. 
And  he  had  only  two  pounds  ten  when  I  left 
him.  He's  got  the  money  in  that  portmanteau, 
that  I'm  sure,  and  he  got  me  out  of  the  room 
to  get  it." 

"  Evidently,"  said  Bobby. 

125 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  *  Here's  ten  pounds,*  said  he;  '  get  the  best 
bunch  of  flowers  money  can  buy  and  tell  the 
lady  I'm  coming  to  see  her  later  on  in  the  day.' 

"  *  What  lady?  '  said  I,  wishing  to  head  him 
off. 

"  *  This  is  the  address,'  said  he,  and  goes  to 
the  writing-table  and  writes  it  out." 

He  handed  Bobby  a  sheet  of  the  hotel  paper. 
Simon's  handwriting  was  on  it,  and  a  name  and 
address  supplied  by  that  memory  of  his  which 
clung  so  tenaciously  to  all  things  pleasant. 

"  Miss  Rossignol,  lo,  Duke  Street,  Leicester 
Square." 

Bobby  whistled. 

"  Did  I  ever  dream  I'd  see  this  day? " 
mourned  Mudd.  "  Me !  Sent  on  a  message 
like  that,  by  him!  '' 

"  This  is  a  complication,"  said  Bobby.  "  I 
say,  Mudd,  he  must  have  been  busy  yesterday — 
upon  my  soul " 

"  Question  is,  what  am  I  to  do?  "  said  Mudd. 
"  I'm  goin'  to  take  no  flowers  to  hussies." 

Bobby  thought  deeply  for  a  moment. 

"Did  he  recognise  you  this  morning?"  he 
asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mudd,  "  but  he  made 
no  bones.     I  don't  believe  he  remembered  me 
right,  but  he  made  no  bones." 
126 


THE  HUNDRED-POUND  NOTE 

"  Well,  Mudd,  you'd  better  just  swallow  your 
feelings  and  take  those  flowers,  for  if  you  don't, 
and  he  finds  out,  he  may  fire  you.  Where  would 
we  be  then?  Besides,  he's  to  be  humoured,  so 
the  doctor  said,  didn't  he?  " 

"  Shall  I  send  for  the  doctor  right  off,  sir?  " 
asked  Mudd,  clutching  at  a  forlorn  hope. 

"  The  doctor  can't  stop  him  from  fooling 
after  girls,'*  said  Bobby,  "  unless  the  doctor 
could  put  him  away  in  a  lunatic  asylum ;  and  he 
can't,  can  he,  seeing  he  says  he's  not  mad?  Be- 
sides, there's  the  slur,  and  the  thing  would  be 
sure  to  leak  out.  No,  Mudd,  just  swallow  your 
feelings  and  trot  off  and  get  those  flowers,  and, 
meanwhile,  I'll  do  what  I  can  to  divert  his  mind. 
And  see  here,  Mudd,  you  might  just  see  what 
that  girl  is  like." 

"  Shall  I  tell  her  he's  off  his  head  and  that 
maybe  she'll  have  the  law  on  her  if  she  goes  on 
fooling  with  him?  "  suggested  Mudd. 

"  No,"  said  the  more  worldly-wise  Bobby; 
"  if  she's  the  wrong  sort  that  would  only  make 
her  more  keen.  She'd  say  to  herself,  *  Here's  a 
queer  old  chap  with  money,  half  off  his  nut,  and 
not  under  restraint;  let's  make  hay  before  they 
lock  him  up.'  If  she's  the  right  sort  it  doesn't 
matter;  he's  safe,  and,  right  sort  or  wrong  sort, 
if  he  found  you'd  been  interfering  he  might  send 
127 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

you  about  your  business.  No,  Mudd,  there's 
nothing  to  be  done  but  get  the  flowers  and  leave 
them,  and  see  the  lady  if  possible,  and  make 
notes  about  her.    Say  as  little  as  possible." 

"  He  told  me  to  tell  her  he'd  call  later  in 
the  day." 

"  Leave  that  to  me,"  said  Bobby.  "And 
now,  off  with  you." 


X2S 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    HUNDRED-POUND    NOTE continued 

MUDD  departed  and  Bobby  made  for 
the  coffee-room. 
He  entered  and  looked  around. 
A  good  many  people  were  breakfasting  in  the 
big  room,  the  ordinary  English  breakfast  crowd 
at  a  big  hotel ;  family  parties,  lone  men  and  lone 
women,  some  reading  letters,  some  papers,  and 
all,  somehow,  with  an  air  of  divorcement  from 
home. 

Simon  was  there,  seated  at  a  little  table  on 
the  right  and  enjoying  himself.  Now,  and  in 
his  right  mind,  Simon  gave  Bobby  another  shock. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  this  pleasant-faced, 
jovial-looking  gentleman,  so  well-dressed  and  a 
la  mode,  was  Uncle  Simon?  What  an  improve- 
ment I    So  it  seemed  at  first  glance. 

Simon  looked  up  from  his  sausages — ^he  was 
having  sausages,  saw  Bobby — and  with  his 
unfailing  memory  of  pleasant  things,  even  dimly 
seen,  recognised  him  as  the  man  of  last  night. 

"  Hullo,"  said  Simon,  as  the  other  came  up  to 
129 


THE  MAISr  WHO  l^DUND  HIMSELF 

the  table,  "  there  you  are  again.  Had  break- 
fast?" 

"  No/'  said  Bobby.  ''  Fll  sit  here  if  I  may." 
He  drew  a  chair  to  the  second  place  that  was 
laid  and  took  his  seat. 

"  Have  sausages,"  said  Simon.  "  Nothing 
beats  sausages." 

Bobby  ordered  sausages,  though  he  would 
have  preferred  anything  else.  He  didn't  want 
to  argue. 

"  Nothing  beats  sausages,"  said  Uncle  Simon 
again. 

Bobby  concurred. 

Then  the  conversation  languished,  just  as  it 
may  between  two  old  friends  or  boon  compan- 
ions who  have  no  need  to  keep  up  talk. 

"  Feeling  all  right  this  morning?  "  ventured 
Bobby. 

"  Never  felt  better  in  my  life,"  replied  the 
other.  "  Never  felt  better  in  my  life.  How 
did  you  manage  to  get  home?  " 

"  Oh,  I  got  home  all  right." 

Simon  scarcely  seemed  to  hear  this  comfort- 
ing declaration ;  scrambled  eggs  had  been  placed 
before  him. 

Bobby,  in  sudden  contemplation  of  a  month 
of  this  business,  almost  forgot  his  sausages. 
The  true  horror  of  Uncle  Simon  appeared  to 
130 


THE  HUNDRED-POUND  NOTE— cow/. 

him  now  for  the  first  time.  You  see,  he  knew  all 
the  facts  of  the  case.  An  ordinary  person,  un- 
knowing, would  have  accepted  Simon  as  all 
right,  but  it  seemed  to  Bobby,  now,  that  it  would 
have  been  much  better  if  his  companion  had  been 
decently  and  honestly  mad,  less  uncanny.  He 
was  obviously  sane,  though  a  bit  divorced  from 
things;  obviously  sane,  and  eating  scrambled 
eggs  after  sausages  with  the  abandon  of  a 
schoolboy  on  a  holiday  after  a  long  term  at  a 
cheap  school;  sane,  and  enjoying  himself  after  a 
night  like  that — yet  he  was  Simon  Pettigrew. 

Then  he  noticed  that  Simon's  eyes  were  con- 
stantly travelling,  despite  the  scrambled  eggs,  in 
a  given  direction^  A  pretty  young  girl  was 
breakfasting  with  a  family  party  a  little  way  off 
— ^that  was  the  direction. 

There  was  a  mother,  a  father,  something  that 
looked  like  an  uncle,  what  appeared  to  be  an 
aunt,  and  what  appeared  to  be  May  dressed  in  a 
washing  silk  blouse  and  plain  skirt. 

November  was  glancing  at  May. 

Bobby  remembered  Miss  Rossignol  and  felt  a 
bit  comforted;  then  he  began  to  feel  uncomfort- 
able: the  aunt  was  looking  fixedly  at  Simon. 
His  admiration  had  evidently  been  noted  by 
Watchfulness;  then  the  uncle  seemed  to  take 
notice. 

131 


^  THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

Bobby,  blushing,  tried  to  make  conversation, 
and  only  got  replies.  Then,  to  his  relief,  the 
family,  having  finished  breakfast,  withdrew, 
and  Simon  became  himself  again,  cheerful  and 
burning  for  the  pleasures  of  the  day  before 
him,  the  pleasures  to  be  got  from  London, 
money,  and  youth. 

His  conversation  told  this,  and  that  he  de- 
sired to  include  Bobby  In  the  scheme  of  things, 
and  the  young  man  could  not  help  remembering 
Thackeray's  little  story  of  how,  coming  up  to 
London,  he  met  a  young  Oxford  man  in  the  rail- 
way carriage,  a  young  man  half-tipsy  with  the 
prospect  of  a  day  In  town  and  a  "  tear  round  '* 
— with  the  prospect,  nothing  more. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  asked 
Bobby,  as  the  other  rose  from  the  table. 

"Shaved,"  said  Simon;  "come  along  and 
get  shaved;  can't  go  about  like  this." 

Bobby  was  already  shaved,  but  he  followed 
the  other  outside  to  a  barber's  and  sat  reading  a 
Daily  Mirror  and  waiting  whilst  Simon  was 
operated  on.  The  latter,  having  been  shaved, 
had  his  hair  brushed  and  trimmed,  and  all  the 
time  during  these  processes  the  barber  spake  In 
this  wise,  Simon  turning  the  monologue  to  a 
duologue. 

"  Yes,  sir,  glorious  weather,  isn't  It  ?  Lon- 
132 


JHE  HUNDRED-POUND  NOTE— co«^ 

don's  pretty  full,  too,  for  the  time  of  year — 
fuller  than  I've  seen  for  a  long  time.  Ever  tried 
face  massage,  sir?  Most  comforting.  Can  be 
applied  by  yourself.  Can  sell  you  a  complete 
outfit,  Parker's  face  cream  and  all,  two  pound 
ten.  Thank  you,  sir.  Staying  in  the  Charing 
Cross  'Otel?  I'll  have  it  sent  to  your  room. 
Yes,  sir,  the  'otel  is  full.  There's  a  deal  of 
money  being  spent  in  London,  sir.  Raise  your 
chin,  ,sir,  a  leetle  more.  Ever  try  a  Gillette 
razor,  sir?  Useful  should  you  wish  to  shave  In 
a  'urry;  beautiful  plated.  This  is  It,  sir — one 
guinea — shines  like  silver,  don't  It?  Thank 
you,  sir,  I'll  send  it  up  with  the  other.  Yes,  sir, 
it's  most  convenient  havin'  a  barber's  close  to 
the  'otel.  I  supply  most  of  the  'otel  people  with 
toilet  rekisites.  'Air's  a  little  thin  on  the  top, 
sir;  didn't  mean  no  offence,  sir,  maybe  It's  the 
light.  Dry,  that's  what  It  is ;  It's  the  'ot  weather. 
Now,  I'd  recommend  Coolers'  Lotion  followed 
after  application  by  Goulard's  Brillantine.  Oh, 
Lord,  no,  sir!  Them  brillantines  is  no  use. 
Goulard's  Is  the  only  real;  costs  a  bit  more,  but 
then,  cheap  brillantine  is  rewin.  Thank  you, 
sir.  And  how  are  you  off  for  'air  brushes,  sir? 
There's  a  pair  of  bargains  In  that  show-case — 
travellers'  samples — I  can  let  you  have,  silver- 
plated,  as  good  as  you'll  get  In  London  and  'arf 
133 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

the  price.  Shine,  don't  they?  And  feel  the 
bristles — real  'og.  Thank  you,  sir.  Two  ten — 
one  one — one  four — two  ten — and  a  shillin'  for 
the  'air  cut  and  shave.  No,  sir,  I  can't  change 
an  'undred-pound  note.  A  ten?  Yes,  I  can 
manage  a  ten.    Thank  you,  sir." 

Seven  pounds  and  sixpence  for  a  hair-cut 
and  shave — ^with  accompaniments.  Bobby, 
tongue-tied  and  aghast,  rose  up. 

"  'Air  cut,  sir?  "  asked  the  barber. 

"  No,  thanks,"  replied  Bobby. 

Simon,  having  glanced  at  himself  in  the 
mirror,  picked  up  his  straw  hat  and  walking- 
stick,  and  taking  the  arm  of  his  companion,  out 
they  walked. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  asked  Bobby. 

"  Anywhere,"  replied  the  other;  "  I  want  to 
get  some  change." 

"  Why,  you've  got  change !  " 

Simon  unlinked,  and  in  the  face  of  the  Strand 
and  the  passers-by  produced  from  his  pocket 
two  hundred-pound  notes,  three  or  four  one- 
pound  notes,  and  a  ten-pound  note;  searching 
in  his  pockets  to  see  what  gold  he  had,  he 
dropped  a  hundred-pound  note,  which  Bobby 
quickly  recovered. 

"  Mind!  "  said  Bobby.  "  You'll  have  those 
notes  snatched." 

134 


THE  HUNDRED-POUND  NOTE— cont, 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Simon. 
^     He  replaced  the  money  in  his  pocket,  and  his 
companion  breathed  again. 

Bobby  had  borrowed  five  pounds  from  Tozer 
in  view  of  possibilities. 

"  Look  here,"  said  he,  *'  what's  the  good  of 
staying  in  London  a  glorious  day  like  this? 
Let's  go  somewhere  quiet  and  enjoy  ourselves — 
Richmond  or  Greenwich  or  somewhere.  I'll 
pay  expenses  and  you  need  not  bother  about 
change." 

"  No,  you  won't,"  said  Simon.  "  You're 
going  to  have  some  fun  along  with  me.  What's 
the  matter  with  London?  " 

Bobby  couldn't  say. 

Renouncing  the  idea  of  the  country,  without 
any  other  idea  to  replace  It  except  to  keep  his 
companion  walking  and  away  from  shops  and 
bars  and  girls,  he  let  himself  be  led.  They  were 
making  back  towards  Charing  Cross.  At  the 
Bureau  de  Change  Simon  went  In,  the  Idea  of 
changing  a  hundred-pound  note  pursuing  him. 
He  wanted  elbow-room  for  enjoyment,  but  the 
Bureau  refused  to  make  change.  The  note  was 
all  right;  perhaps  it  was  Simon  that  was  the 
doubtful  quantity.  He  had  quite  a  little  quarrel 
over  the  matter  and  came  out  arm-in-arm  with 
his  companion  and  flushed. 

135 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  Come  along,"  said  Bobby,  a  new  Idea  strik- 
ing him.     ''  We'll  get  change  somewhere." 

From  Charing  Cross,  through  Cockspur 
Street,  then  through  Pall  Mall  and  up  St. 
James's  Street  they  went,  stopping  at  every 
likely  and  unlikely  place  to  find  change.  En- 
gaged so,  Simon  at  least  was  not  spending  money 
or  taking  refreshment.  They  tried  at  shipping 
offices,  at  insurance  offices,  at  gun-shops  and  tai- 
lors, till  the  weary  Bobby  began  to  loathe  the 
business,  began  to  feel  that  both  he  and  his  com- 
panion were  under  suspicion  and  almost  that  the 
business  they  were  on  was  doubtful. 

Simon,  however,  seemed  to  pursue  it  with 
zest  and,  now,  without  anger.  It  seemed  to 
Bobby  as  though  he  enjoyed  being  refused,  as  It 
gave  him  another  chance  of  entering  another 
shop  and  showing  that  he  had  a  hundred-pound 
note  to  change — a  horrible  foolish  satisfaction 
that  put  a  new  edge  to  the  affair.  Simon  was 
swanking. 

"  Look  here,"  said  the  unfortunate,  at  last, 
"  wasn't  there  a  girl  you  told  me  of  last  night 
you  wanted  to  send  flowers  to?  Let's  go  and 
get  them;  then  we  can  have  a  drink  somewhere." 

"  She'll  wait,"  said  Simon.  "  Besides,  Fve 
sent  them.     Come  on.'* 

"  Very  well,"  said  Bobby,  in  desperation.  "  I 
136 


THE  HUNDRED-POUND  NOTE— cow/. 

believe  I  know  a  place  where  you  can  get  your 
note  changed;  it's  close  by." 

They  reached  a  cigar  merchant's.  It  was  the 
cigar  merchants  and  moneylenders  that  had 
often  stood  him  in  good  stead.  "  Wait  for  me," 
said  Bobby,  and  he  went  in.  Behind  the 
counter  was  a  gentleman  recalling  Prince  Flori- 
zel  of  Bohemia. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Ravenshaw,"  said  this 
Individual. 

"  Good  morning,  Alvarez,"  replied  Bobby. 
"  I  haven't  called  about  that  little  account  I  owe 
you  though — ^but  cheer  up.  Pve  got  you  a  new 
customer — ^^he  wants  a  note  changed." 

"  What  sort  of  note?  "  asked  Alvarez. 

"  A  hundred-pound  note;  can  you  do  it?  " 

"  If  the  note's  all  right." 

"  Lord  bless  me,  yes !  I  can  vouch  for  that 
and  for  him ;  only  he's  strange  to  London.  He's 
got  heaps  of  money,  too,  but  you  must  promise 
not  to  rook  him  too  much  over  cigars,  for  he's 
a  relative  of  mine." 

"  Where  is  he?  "  asked  Alvarez. 

"  Outside." 

"  Well,  bring  him  in." 

Bobby  went  out.     Uncle  Simon  was  gone. 
Gone  as  though  he  had  never  been,  swallowed 
up  in  the  passing  crowd,  fascinated  away  by 
137 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

heaven  knows  what,  and  with  all  those  bank- 
notes in  his  pocket.  He  might  have  got  into  a 
sudden  taxi  or  boarded  an  omnibus,  or  vanished 
up  Sackville  Street  or  Albemarle  Street;  any 
passing  fancy  or  sudden  temptation  would  have 
been  sufficient. 

Bobby,  hurrying  towards  St.  James's  Street 
to  have  a  look  down  it,  stopped  a  policeman. 

**  Have  you  seen  an  old  gentleman — I  mean  a 
youngish-looking  gentleman — in  a  straw  hat?  " 
asked  Bobby.  "  I've  lost  him."  Scarcely  wait- 
ing for  the  inevitable  reply,  he  hurried  on,  feel- 
ing that  the  constable  must  have  thought  him 
mad. 

St.  James's  Street  showed  nothing  of  Simon. 
He  was  turning  back  when,  half-blind  to  every- 
thing but  the  object  of  his  search,  he  almost 
ran  into  the  arms  of  Julia  Delyse.  She 
was  carrying  a  parcel  that  looked  like  a 
manuscript. 

"Why,  Bobby,  what  is  the  matter  with  you?  " 
asked  Julia. 

"  I'm  looking  for  someone,"  said  Bobby  dis- 
tractedly.    "I've  lost  a  relative  of  mine." 

"  I  wish  it  were  one  of  mine,"  said  Julia. 
"  What  sort  of  relative?  " 

"  An  oldish  man  in  a  straw  hat.  Walk  down 
»  bit;  you  look  that  side  of  the  street  and  I'll 

138 


THE  HUNDRED-POUND  NOTE— cont. 

watch  this;  he  may  have  gone  into  a  shop — 
and  I  must  get  hold  of  him." 

He  walked  rapidly  on,  and  Julia,  sucked  for  a 
moment  into  this  whirlpool  of  an  Uncle  Simon 
that  had  already  engulfed  Mudd,  Bobby,  and 
the  good  name  of  the  firm  of  Pettigrew,  toiled 
beside  him  till  they  came  nearly  to  the  Park 
railings. 

"  He's  gone,"  said  Bobby,  stopping  suddenly 
,   dead.     "  It's  no  use;  he's  gone." 
I      "  Well,   you'll  find  him  again,"   said  Julia 
hopefully.    "  Relatives  always  turn  up." 

"  Oh,  he's  sure  to  turn  up,"  said  the  other, 
"  and  that's  what  I'm  dreading — it's  the  way 
he'll  turn  up  that's  bothering  me." 

"  I  could  understand  you  better  if  I  knew 
what  you   meant,"   said  Julia.      "  Let's  walk 
back;  this  is  out  of  my  direction." 
They  turned. 

Despite  his  perplexity  and  annoyance,  Bobby 
could  not  suppress  a  feeling  of  relief  at  having 
done  with  the  business  for  a  moment;  all  the 
same,  he  was  really  distressed.  The  craving  for 
counsel  and  companionship  in  thought  seized 
him. 

"  Julia,  can  you  keep  a  secret?  "  asked  he. 
"  Tight,"  said  Julia. 
"  WeU,  it's  my  uncle." 
139 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  You  Ve  lost?" 

"  Yes;  and  he's  got  his  pockets  full  of  hun- 
dred-pound bank-notes — and  he's  no  more  fit  to 
be  trusted  with  them  than  a  child." 

*' What  a  delightful  uncle!" 

"  Don't  laugh;  it's  serious." 

"He's  not  mad,  is  he?" 

"  No,  that's  the  worst  of  it.  He's  got  one  of 
these  beastly  new  diseases — I  don't  know  what 
it  Is,  but  as  far  as  I  can  make  out  it's  as  if  he'd 
got  young  again  without  remembering  what  he 
is." 

"  How  interesting!  " 

"  Yes,  you  would  find  him  very  interesting  if 
you  had  anything  to  do  with  him;  but,  seriously, 
something  has  to  be  done.  There's  the  family 
name  and  there's  his  business."  He  explained 
the  case  of  Simon  as  well  as  he  could. 

Julia  did  not  seem  in  the  least  shocked. 

"  But  I  think  it's  beautiful,"  she  broke  out. 
**  Strange — but  in  a  way  beautiful  and  pathetic. 
Oh,  if  only  a  few  more  people  could  do  the  same 
—-become  young,  do  foolish  things  instead  of 
this  eternal  grind  of  common  sense,  hard  busi- 
ness, and  everything  that  ruins  the  world!  " 

Bobby  tried  to  imagine  the  world  with  an  in- 
creased population  of  the  brand  of  Uncle 
Simon,  and  failed. 

140 


THE  HUNDRED-POUND  NOTE— cont. 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  "  but  it  will  be  the  ruin  of 
his  business  and  reputation.  Abstractly,  I  don't 
deny  there's  something  to  be  said  for  it,  but  in 
the  concrete  it  don't  work.  Do  think,  and  let's 
try  to  find  a  way  out." 

"  I'm  thinking,"  said  Julia. 

Then,  after  a  pause : 

"  You  must  get  him  away  from  London." 

"  That  was  my  idea,  but  he  won't  go,  not 
€ven  to  Richmond  for  a  few  hours.  He  won't 
leave  London." 

"  There's  a  place  in  Wessex  I  know,"  said 
Julia,  "  where  there's  a  charming  little  hotel.  I 
was  down  there  for  a  week  in  May.  You  might 
take  him  there." 

"  We'd  never  get  him  Into  the  train." 

"  Take  him  in  a  car." 

"  Might  do  that,"  said  Bobby.  "  What's  the 
name  of  it?  " 

''Upton-on-HiU;  and  I'll  tell  you  what,  I'll 
go  down  with  you,  if  you  like,  and  help  to  watch 
him.     I'd  like  to  study  him." 

"I'll  think  of  it,"  said  Bobby  hurriedly. 
The  affair  of  Uncle  Simon  was  taking  a  new 
turn;  like  Fate,  it  was  trying  to  force  him  into 
closer  contact  with  Julia.  Craving  for  someone 
to  help  him  to  think,  he  had  welded  himself  to 
Julia  with  this  family  secret  for  solder.  The 
141 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

idea  of  a  little  hotel  in  the  country  with  Julia, 
ever  ready  for  embracements  and  passionate 
scenes,  the  knowledge  that  he  was  almost  half- 
engaged  to  her,  the  instinct  that  she  would  suck 
him  into  cosy  corners  and  arbours — all  this 
frankly  frightened  him.  He  was  beginning  to 
recognise  that  Julia  was  quite  light  and  almost 
brilliant  in  the  street  when  love-making  was 
impossible,  but  impossibly  heavy  and  dull, 
though  mesmeric,  when  alone  with  him  with  her 
head  on  his  shoulder.  And  away  in  the  distance 
of  his  mind  a  deformed  sort  of  common  sense 
was  telling  him  that  if  once  Julia  got  a  good 
long  clutch  on  him  she  would  marry  him;  he 
would  pass  from  whirlpool  to  whirlpool  of  cosy 
corner  and  arbour  over  the  rapids  of  marriage 
with  Julia  clinging  to  him. 

"I'll  think  of  it,''  said  he.  "What's  its 
name?  " 

"  The  Rose  Hotel,  Upton-on-Hill — think  of 
Upton  Sinclair.  It's  a  jolly  little  place,  and 
such  a  nice  landlord;  we'd  have  a  jolly  time, 
Bobby.  Bobby,  have  you  forgotten  yesterday?  " 

"  No,"  said  Bobby,  from  his  heart. 

"  I  didn't  sleep  a  wink  last  night,"  said  the 
lady  of  the  red  hair.    "  Did  you?  " 

"  Scarcely." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  she,  "  this  is  almost  like 
142 


THE  HUNDRED-POUND  NOTE— cont. 

Fate.  It  gives  us  a  chance  to  meet  under  the 
same  roof  quite  properly  since  your  uncle  is 
there — ^not  that  I  care  a  button  for  the  world, 
but  still,  there  are  the  proprieties,  aren't  there?" 

"  There  are." 

"  Wait  for  me,"  said  she.  "  I  want  to  go 
into  my  publishers'  with  this  manuscript." 

They  had  reached  a  fashionable  publishers' 
office  that  had  the  appearance  of  a  bank  prem- 
ises. In  she  went,  returning  in  a  moment  empty- 
handed. 

"Now  Vm  free,"  said  she;  "free  for  a 
month.    What  are  you  doing  to-day?  " 

"  ril  be  looking  for  Uncle  Simon,"  he  re- 
plied. "  I  must  rush  back  to  the  Charing  Cross 
Hotel,  and  after  that — I  must  go  on  hunting. 
I'll  see  you  to-morrow,  Julia." 

"  Are  you  staying  at  the  Charing  Cross?  " 

"  No,  I'm  staying  at  B12,  the  Albany,  with  a 
man  called  Tozer." 

"  I  wish  we  could  have  had  the  day  together. 
Well,  to-morrow,  then." 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Bobby. 

He  put  her  into  a  taxi  and  she  gave  the  ad- 
dress of  a  female  literary  club,  then  when  the 
taxi  had  driven  away  he  returned  to  the  Charing 
Cross  Hotel. 

PThere  he  found  Mudd,  who  had  just  Returned. 
143 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  HOME  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALES 

MUDD,  with  the  ten-pound  note  and  the 
written  address,  had  started  that 
morning  with  the  intention  of  doing 
another  errand  as  well.  He  first  took  a  cab  to 
King  Charles  Street.  It  was  a  relief  to  find  it 
there,  and  that  the  house  had  not  been  burned 
down  in  the  night.  Fire  was  one  of  Mudd's 
haunting  dreads — fire  and  the  fear  of  a  mistress. 
He  had  extinguishing-bombs  hung  in  every  pas- 
sage, besides  red,  cone-shaped  extinguishers.  If 
he  could  have  had  bombs  to  put  out  the  flames 
of  love  and  keep  women  away  he  no  doubt 
would  have  had  them. 

Mrs.  Jukes  received  him,  and  he  enquired  if 
the  plate  had  been  locked  up.  Then  he  visited 
his  own  room  and  examined  his  bank-book  to 
see  if  it  were  safe  and  untampered  with;  then  he 
had  a  glass  of  ginger  wine  for  his  stomach's 
sake. 

"Where  are  you  off  to  now?"  asked  Mrs. 
Jukes. 

144 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALES 

"  On  business  for  the  master,"  replied  Mudd. 
"  I've  some  law  papers  to  take  to  an  address. 
Lord  I  look  at  those  brasses !  Haven't  the  girls 
no  hands?  Place  going  to  rack  and  ruin  if  I 
leave  it  two  instant  minits.  And  look  at  that 
fender — sure  you  put  the  chain  on  the  hall  door 
last  night?" 

"Sure." 

"  Well,  be  sure  you  do  it,  for  there's  another 
Jack-the-Ripper  chap  goin'  about  the  West  End, 
I've  heard,  and  he  may  be  in  on  you  if  you 
don't." 

Having  frightened  Mrs.  Jukes  into  the  sense 
of  the  necessity  for  chains  as  well  as  bolts,  Mudd 
put  on  his  hat,  blew  his  nose,  and  departed, 
banging  the  door  behind  him  and  making  sure  it 
was  shut. 

There  is  a  flower  shop  in  the  street  at  the  end 
of  King  Charles  Street.  He  entered,  bought  his 
bouquet,  and  with  it  in  his  hand  left  the  estab- 
lishment. He  was  looking  for  a  cab  to  hide 
himself  in ;  he  found  none,  but  he  met  a  fellow 
butler,  Judge  Ponsonby's  man. 

"  Hello,  Mr.  Mudd,"  said  the  other;  "  going 
courting?  " 

"  Mrs.  Jukes  asked  me  to  take  them  to  a 
female  friend  that's  goin'  to  be  married,"  said 
Mudd. 

145 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

The  bouquet  was  not  extraordinarily  large, 
but  it  seemed  to  grow  larger. 

Condemned  to  take  an  omnibus  in  lieu  of  a 
cab,  it  seemed  to  fill  the  omnibus ;  people  looked 
at  it  and  then  at  Mudd.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  was  condemned  to  carry  Simon's  folly  bare  in 
the  face  of  the  world.  Then  he  remembered 
what  he  had  said  about  the  recipient  going  to 
be  married.    Was  that  an  omen? 

Mudd  believed  in  omens.  If  his  elbow  itched 
— and  it  had  itched  yesterday — he  was  going  to 
sleep  in  a  strange  bed;  he  never  killed  spiders, 
and  he  tested  "  strangers  "  in  the  tea-cup  to  see 
if  they  were  male  or  female. 

The  omen  was  riding  him  now,  and  he  got  out 
of  the  omnibus  and  sought  the  street  of  his 
destination,  feeling  almost  as  though  he  were  a 
fantastic  bridesmaid  at  some  nightmare  wed- 
ding, with  Simon  in  the  role  of  groom. 

That  Simon  should  select  a  wife  in  this 
gloomy  street  off  Leicester  Square,  and  in  this 
drab-looking  house  at  whose  door  he  was  knock- 
ing, did  not  occur  to  Mudd.  What  did  occur  to 
him  was  that  some  hussy  living  in  this  house 
had  put  her  spell  on  Simon  and  might  select  him 
for  a  husband,  marry  him^at  a  registrar  office 
before  his  temporary  youth  had  departed,  and 
come  and  reign  at  Charles  Street. 
146 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALES 

Mudd's  dreaded  imaginary  mistress  had  al- 
ways figured  in  his  mind's  eye  as  a  stout  lady — 
eminently  a  lady — who  would  interfere  with  his 
ideas  of  how  the  brasses  ought  to  be  polished, 
interfere  with  tradesmen,  order  Mudd  about, 
and  make  herself  generally  a  nuisance;  this 
new  imaginary  horror  was  a  ''  painted  slut,'* 
who  would  bring  ridicule  and  disgrace  on  Simon 
and  all  belonging  to  him. 

Mudd  had  the  fine  feehngs  of  an  old  maid  on 
matters  like  this,  backed  by  a  fine  knowledge  of 
what  elderly  men  are  capable  of  in  the  way  of 
folly  with  women. 

Did  not  Mr.  Justice  Thurlow  marry  his  cook? 

He  rang  at  the  dingy  hall  door  and  it  was 
opened  by  a  dingy  little  girl  in  a  print  dress. 

"Does  Miss  Rosinol  live  here?"  asked 
Mudd. 

"  Yus." 

"Can  I  see  her?" 

"  Wait  a  minit,"  said  the  dingy  one.  She 
clattered  up  the  stairs;  she  seemed  to  wear 
hobnailed  boots  to  judge  by  the  noise.  A 
minute  elapsed,  and  then  she  clattered  down 
again. 

"  Come  in,  plaaze,"  said  the  little  girl. 

Mudd  obeyed  and  followed  upstairs,  holding" 
on  to  the  shaky  banister  with  his  left  hand^ 

147 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

carrying  the  bouquet  in  his  right,  feeling  as 
though  he  were  a  vicious  man  walking  upstairs 
in  a  dream ;  feeling  no  longer  like  Mudd. 

The  little  girl  opened  a  door,  and  there  was 
the  "  painted  hussy  " — old  Madame  Rossignol 
sitting  at  a  table  with  books  spread  open  before 
her  and  writing. 

She  translated — as  before  said — English 
books  into  French,  novels  mostly. 

The  bouquet  of  last  night  had  been  broken 
up;  there  were  flowers  in  vases  and  about  the 
room;  despite  its  shabbiness,  there  was  an  at- 
mosphere of  cleanliness  and  high  decency  that 
soothed  the  stricken  soul  of  Mudd. 

"  I'm  Mr.  Pettigrew's  man,'*  said  Mudd, 
"  and  he  asked  me  to  bring  you  these  flowers." 

*'  Ah,  Monsieur  Seemon  Pattigrew,"  cried 
the  old  lady,  her  face  lighting.  "  Come  in,  mon- 
sieur. Cerise! — Cerise! — a  gentilmon  from 
Mr.  Pattigrew.  Will  you  not  take  a  seat, 
monsieur?  " 

Mudd,  handing  over  the  flowers,  sat  down, 
and  at  that  moment  in  came  Cerise  from  the 
bedroom  adjoining.  Cerise,  fresh  and  dainty, 
with  wide  blue  eyes  that  took  in  Mudd  and  the 
flowers,  that  seemed  to  take  in  at  the  same  time 
the  whole  of  spring  and  summer. 

"  Poor,  but  decent,"  said  Mudd  to  himself. 
148 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALES 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  old  lady,  as  Cerise  ran 
off  to  get  a  bowl  to  put  the  flowers  in,  "  you  are 
as  welcome  to  us  as  your  good  kind  master  who 
saved  my  daughter  yesterday.  Will  you  convey 
to  him  our  deepest  respects  and  our  thanks?  " 

"Saved  her?"  said  Mudd. 

Madame  explained.  Cerise,  arranging  the 
flowers,  joined  in;  they  waxed  enthusiastic. 
Never  had  Mudd  been  so  chattered  to  before. 
He  saw  the  whole  business  and  guessed  how  the 
land  lay  now.  He  felt  deeply  relieved.  Madame 
inspired  him  with  instinctive  confidence;  Cerise 
in  her  youth  and  innocence  repelled  any  idea  of 
marriage  between  herself  and  Simon.  But 
they'd  got  to  be  warned,  somehow,  that  Simon 
was  off  the  spot.  He  began  the  warning  seated 
there  before  the  women  and  rubbing  his  knees 
gently,  his  eyes  wandering  about  as  though  seek- 
ing inspiration  from  the  furniture. 

Mr.  Pettigrew  was  a  very  good  master,  but  he 
had  to  be  took  care  of;  his  health  wasn't  what 
it  might  be.  He  was  older  than  he  looked,  but 
lately  he  had  had  an  illness  that  had  made  him 
suddenly  grow  young  again,  as  you  might  say; 
the  doctors  could  not  make  it  out,  but  he  was 
just  like  a  child  sometimes,  as  you  might  say. 

''  I  said  it,"  cut  in  Madame.  "  A  boy— that 
is  his  charm." 

149 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

Well,  Mudd  did  not  know  anything  about 
charms,  but  he  was  often  very  anxious  about 
Mr.  Pettigrew.  Then,  little  by  little,  the  con- 
fidence the  women  inspired  opened  his  flood- 
gates and  his  suppressed  emotions  came  out. 

London  was  not  good  for  Mr.  Pettigrew*s 
health — that  was  the  truth ;  he  ought  to  be  got 
away  quiet  and'out  of  excitement — doorknockers' 
rose  up  before  him*  as  he  said  this — ^but  he  was 
very  self-willed.  It  was  strange  a  gentleman  get- 
ting young  again  like  this,  and  a  great  perplex- 
ity and  trouble  to  an  old  man  like  him,  Mudd. 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  he  has  been  always  young," 
said  Madame;  "that  heart  could  never  grow 
old." 

Mudd  shook  his  head. 

"  Fve  known  him  for  forty  year,"  said  he, 
"  and  it  has  hit  me  cruel  hard,  his  doing  things 
he's  never  done  before — ^not  much;  but  there 
you  are — he's  different." 

"  I  have  known  an  old  gentleman,"  said 
Madame — "  Monsieur  de  Mirabole — ^he,  too, 
changed  to  be  quite  gay  and  young,  as  though 
spring  had  come  to  him.  He  wrote  me  verses," 
laughed  Madame.  "Me,  an  old  woman!  I 
humoured  him,  did  I  not.  Cerise  ?  But  I  never 
read  his  verses;  I  could  not  humour  him  to 
that  point." 

ISO 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALES 

"What  happened  to  him?"  asked  Mudd 
gloomily. 

"  Oh  dear,  he  fell  in  love  with  Cerise,"  said 
Madame.  "He  was  very  rich;  he  wanted  to 
marry  Cerise,  did  he  not,  Cerise?  " 

"  Oui,  maman,"  replied  Cerise,  finishing  the 
flowers. 

All  this  hit  Mudd  pleasantly.  Sincere  as  sun- 
shine, patently,  obviously,  truthful,  this  pair  of 
females  were  beyond  suspicion  on  the  charge  of 
setting  nets  for  Simon.  Also,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  he  came  to  know  the  comfort  of 
a  female  mind  when  in  trouble.  His  troubles  up 
to  this  had  been  mostly  about  uncleaned  brasses, 
corked  wine,  letters  forgotten  to  be  posted.  In 
this  whirlpool  of  amazement,  like  Poe's  man  In 
the  descent  of  the  maelstrom,  who,  clinging  to 
a  barrel,  found  that  he  was  being  sucked  down 
slower,  Mudd,  clinging  now  to  the  female  sav- 
ing-something— sense,  clarity  of  outlook,  good- 
ness, call  it  what  you  will — found  comfort. 

He  had  opened  his  mind,  the  nightmare  had 
lifted  somewhat.  Opening  his  mind  to  Bobby 
had  not  relieved  him  in  the  least;  on  the  con- 
trary, talking  with  Bobby,  the  situation  had 
seemed  more  insane  than  ever.  The  two  rigid 
masculine  minds  had  followed  one  another,  In- 
capable of  mutual  help;  the  buoyant  female 

151 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

Something  incapable  of  strict  definition  was  now 
to  Mudd  as  the  supporting  barrel.  He  clutched 
at  the  idea  of  old  Monsieur  de  Mirabole,  who 
had  got  young  again  without  coming  to  much 
mischief;  he  felt  that  Simon  in  falling  upon  these 
two  females  had  fallen  amongst  pillows.  He 
told  them  of  Simon's  message,  that  he  would  call 
upon  them  later  in  the  day,  and  they  laughed. 

"He  will  be  safe  with  us,"  said  Madame; 
"  we  will  not  let  him  come  to  'arm.  Do  not  be 
alarmed,  Monsieur  Modd,  the  bon  Dieu  will 
surely  protect  an  innocent  so  charming,  so  good 
— so  much  goodness  may  walk  alone,  even 
amongst  tigers,  even  amongst  lions ;  it  will  come 
to  no  'arm.  We  will  see  that  he  returns  to  the 
Sharing  Cross  'Otel — I  will  talk  to  'im." 

Mudd  9eparted,  relieved,  so  great  h  the 
power  of  goodness,  even  though  it  shines  in  the 
persons  of  an  impoverished  old  French  lady  and 
a  girl  whose  innocence  is  her  only  strength. 

But  his  relief  was  not  to  be  of  long  cluration, 
for  on  entering  the  hotel,  as  before  said,  he  met 
Bobby.  "  He's  gone,"  said  Bobby;  "  given  me 
the  slip;  and  he  has  two  hundred-pound  bank- 
notes with  him,  to  say  nothing  of  the  rest." 

"Oh,  Lord!"  said  Mudd. 

"  Can  he  have  gone  to  see  that  girl?  What's 
her  address?  " 

152 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALES 

"  What  girl?  "  asked  Mudd. 

"  The  girl  you  took  the  flowers  to." 

"  I've  just  been,"  said  Mudd.  "  No,  he 
wasn't  there.     Wish  he  was;  it's  an  old  lady." 

"Old  lady!" 

"  And  her  daughter.  They're  French  folk, 
poor  but  honest,  not  a  scrap  of  harm  in  them." 
He  explained  the  Rossignol  affair. 

"  Well,  there's  nothing  to  be  done  but  sit 
down  and  wait,"  said  Bobby. 

"  It's  easy  to  say  that.  Me,  with  my  nerves 
near  gone." 

"  I  know;  mine  are  nearly  as  bad.  Ton  my 
soul,  it's  just  as  if  one  had  lost  a  child.  Mudd, 
we've  got  to  get  him  out  of  London;  we've  got 
to  do  it." 

"  Get  him  back  first,"  said  Mudd.  "  Get  him 
back  alive  with  all  that  money  in  his  pocket. 
He'll  be  murdered  before  night,  that's  my 
opinion,  I  know  London;  or  gaoled — and  he'll 
give  his  right  name." 

"  We'll  tip  the  reporter^.if  he  is,"  said  Bobby, 
"  and  keep  it  out  of  the  papers.  I  was  run  in 
once  and  I  know  the  ropes.  Cheer  up,  Mudd, 
and  go  and  have  a  whisky-and-soda ;  you  want 
bucking  up,  and  so  do  I." 

"  Bucking  up !  "  said  Mudd. 


153 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DRAGON-FLY 

ONE  of  the  pleasantest,  yet  perhaps 
most  dangerous,  points  about  Simon 
Pettigrew's  condition  was  his  un- 
English  open-heartedness  towards  strangers — ^ 
strangers  that  pleased  him.  A  disposition,  in 
fact,  to  chum  up  with  anything  that  appealed 
to  him,  without  question,  without  thought. 
Affable  strangers,  pretty  girls — it  was  all  the 
same  to  Simon. 

Now,  when  Bobby  Ravenshaw  went  into  the 
cigar  merchant's,  leaving  Simon  outside,  he  had 
not  noticed  particularly  a  large  Dragon-Fly  car, 
claret-coloured  and  adorned  with  a  tiny  mono- 
gram on  the  door-panel,  which  was  standing  in 
front  of  the  shop  immediately  on  the  right.  It 
was  the  property  of  the  Hon.  Dick  Pugeot,  and 
just  as  Bobby  disappeared  into  the  tobacconist's 
the  Hon.  Dick  appeared  from  the  doorstep  of 
the  next-door  shop. 

Dick  Pugeot,  late  of  the  Guards,  was  a  big, 
yellow  man,  quite  young,  perhaps  not  more 
154 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DRAGON-FLY 

than  twenty-five,  yet  with  a  serious  and  fatherly 
face  and  an  air  that  gave  him  another  Rve  years 
of  apparent  age.  This  serious  and  fatherly  ap- 
pearance was  deceptive.  With  the  activity  of 
a  gnat,  a  disregard  of  all  consequences,  a  big 
fortune,  a  good  heart,  and  a  taste  for  fun  of  any 
sort  as  long  as  it  kept  him  moving,  Dick  Pugeot 
was  generally  in  trouble  of  some  kind  or  an- 
other. His  crave  for  speed  on  the  road  was 
only  equal  to  his  instinct  for  fastness  in  other  re- 
spects, but,  up  to  this,  thanks  to  luck  and  his 
own  personahty,  he  had,  with  the  exception  of  a 
few  endorsed  licences  and  other  trifles  of  that 
sort,  always  escaped. ' 

But  once  he  had  come  very  near  to  a  real 
disaster.  Some  eighteen  months  ago  he  found 
himself  involved  with  a  lady,  a  female  shark  in 
the  guise  of  an  angel,  a — to  put  it  in  his  own 
language — "  bad  'un." 

The  bad  'un  had  him  firmly  hooked.  She  was 
a  Countess,  too!  and  fried  and  eaten  he  un- 
doubtedly would  have  been  had  not  the  wisdom 
of  an  uncle  saved  him. 

"  Go  to  my  jsolicitor,  Pettigrew,'*  said  the 
uncle.  "  If  she  were  an  ordinary  card-sharper  I 
would  advise  you  to  go  to  Marcus  Abraham, 
but,  seeing  what  she  is,  Pettigrew  is  the  man. 
He  wouldn*t  take  up  an  ordinary  case  of  this 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

sort,  but,  seeing  what  she  is,  and  considering 
that  you  are  my  nephew,  he'll  do  it — and  he 
knows  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  her  family. 
There's  nothing  he  doesn't  know  about  us." 

*'  Us  "  meaning  people  of  high  degree. 

Pugeot  went,  and  Simon  took  up  the  case,  and 
in  forty-eight  hours  the  fish  was  off  the  hook, 
frantically  grateful.  He  presented  Simon  with 
a  silver  wine-cooler  and  then  forgot  him,  till  this 
moment,  when,  coming  out  of  Spud  and  Simp- 
son's shop,  he  saw  Simon  standing  on  the  pave- 
ment smoking  a  cigar  and  watching  the  pageant 
of  the  street. 

Simon's  new  clothes  and  holiday  air  and 
straw  hat  put  him  off  for  a  moment,  but  it  was 
Pettigrew  right  enough. 

*'  Hello,  Pettigrew!  "  said  Pugeot. 

**  Hello,"  said  Simon,  pleased  with  the  hearti- 
ness and  appearance  of  this  new  friend. 

"  Why,  you  look  quite  gay,"  said  Pugeot. 
"  What  are  you  up  to  ?  " 

"  Out  for  some  fun,"  said  Simon.  "  What 
are  you  up  to?  " 

*'  Same  as  you,"  replied  Pugeot,  delighted, 
amused,  and  surprised  at  Simon's  manner  and 
reply,  the  vast  respect  he  had  for  his  astuteness 
greatly  amplified  by  this  evidence  of  mundane 
leanings.     "Get  into  the  car;  I've  got  to  call 

.156 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DRAGON-FLY, 

at  Panton  Street  for  a  moment,  and  then  we'll 
go  and  have  luncheon  or  something." 

He  opened  the  car  door  and  Simon  hopped 
in;  then  he  gave  the  address  to  the  driver  and 
the  car  drove  off. 

"  Well,  I  never  expected  to  see  you  this 
morning,"  said  Pugeot.  "  Never  can  feel  grate- 
ful enough  to  you  either — ^youVe  nothing 
special  to  do,  have  you  ?  Anywhere  I  can  drive 
you  to?" 

"  IVe  got  to  see  a  girl,"  said  Simon,  "  but 
she  can  wait." 

Pugeot  laughed. 

That  explained  the  summer  garb  and  straw; 
hat,  but  the  frankness  came  to  him  with  the 
weest  bit  of  a  shock.  However,  he  was  used  to 
shocks,  and  if  old  Simon  Pettigrew  was  running 
after  girls  it  was  no  affair  of  his.  It  was  a  good 
joke,  though,  despite  the  fact  that  he  could 
never  tell  it.  Pugeot  was  not  the  man  to  tell 
tales  out  of  school. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Simon,  suddenly  produc- 
ing his  notes,  "I  want  to  change  a  hundred; 
been  trying  to  do  it  in  a  lot  of  shops.  You  can't 
have  any  fun  without  s'ome  money." 

"  Don't  you  worry,"  said  Pugeot.  "  This  is 
my  show." 

"  I  want  to  change  a  hundred,"  said  Simon, 

157 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

with  the  persistency  of  Toddy  wanting  to  see 
the  wheels  go  round. 

"  Well,  I'll  get  you  change,  though  you  don't 
really  want  it.  Why,  youVe  got  two  hundred 
there — and  a  tenner !  " 

"It's  not  too  much  to  have  a  good  time 
with." 

"  Oh  my! ''  said  Pugeot.  "  Well,  if  you're 
on  the  razzle-dazzle,  I'm  with  you,  Pettigrew. 
I  feel  safe  with  you,  in  a  way;  there's  not  much 
you  don't  know." 

"  Not  much,"  said  Simon,  puffing  himself. 

The  car  stopped. 

"  A  minute,"  said  Pugeot.  Out  he  jumped, 
transacted  his  business,  and  was  back  again 
under  five  minutes.  There  was  a  new  light  in 
his  sober  eye. 

"  Let's  go  and  have  a  slap  at  the  Wilder- 
ness," said  he,  lowering  his  voice  a  tone.  "  You 
know  the  Wilderness.  I  can  get  you  in — ^joUy 
good  fun." 

"  Right,"  said  Simon. 

Pugeot  gave  an  address  to  the  driver  and  off 
they  went.  They  stopped  in  a  narrow  street 
and  Pugeot  led  the  way  into  a  house. 

In  the  hall  of  this  house  he  had  an  interview 
with  a  pale-faced  individual  in  black,  an  evil, 
weary-looking   person    who    handed    Simon    a 

.158 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DRAGON-FLY 

visitors'  book  to  sign.  They  then  went  into  a 
bar,  where  Simon  imbibed  a  cocktail,  and  from 
the  bar  they  went  upstairs. 

Pugeot  opened  a  door  and  disclosed  Monte 
Carlo. 

A  Monte  Carlo  shrunk  to  one  room  and  one 
table.  This  was  the  Wilderness  Club,  and 
around  the  table  were  grouped  men  of  all  ages 
\  and  sizes,  some  of  them  of  the  highest  social 
standing. 

The  stakes  were  high. 

Just  as  a  child  gobbles  a  stolen  apple,  so  these 
gentlemen  seemed  to  be  trying  to  make  as  much 
out  of  their  furtive  business  as  they  could  and 
get  away,  winners  or  losers,  as  soon  as  possible 
lest  worse  befel  them.  Added  to  the  uneasiness 
of  the  gambler  was  the  uneasiness  of  the  law- 
breaker, the  two  uneasinesses,  combined  making 
a  mental  cocktail  that,  to  a  large  number  of  the 
frequenters,  had  a  charm  far  above  anything  to 
be  obtained  In  a  legitimate  gambling-shop  oa 
the  Continent. 

This  place  supplied  Oppenshaw  with  some  of 
his  male  patients. 

Pugeot  played  and  lost,  and  then  Simon 
plunged. 

They  were  there  an  hour,  and  In  that  hour 
Simon  won  seven  hundred  pounds ! 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

Then  Pugeot,  far  more  delighted  than  he, 
dragged  him  away. 

It  was  now  nearly  one  o'clock,  and  down- 
stairs they  had  luncheon,  of  a  sort,  and  a  bottle 
of  cliquot,  of  a  sort. 

"  You  came  in  with  two  hundred  and  you  are 
going  out  with  nine,"  said  Pugeot.  *'  I  am  so 
jolly  glad — ^you  have  the  luck.  When  weVe 
finished  we'll  go  for  a  great  tearing  spin  and  get 
the  air.  You'd  better  get  a  cap  somewhere; 
that  straw  hat  will  be  blown  to  Jericho.  You've 
never  seen  Randall  drive?  He  beats  me. 
We'll  run  round  to  my  rooms  and  get  coats — 
the  old  car  is  a  Dragon-Fly.  I  want  to  show 
you  what  a  Dragon-Fly  can  really  do  on  the 
hard  high-road  out  of  sight  of  traffic.  Two 
Benedictines,  please." 

They  stopped  at  Scott's,  where  Simon  in- 
vested in  a  cap;  then  they  went  to  Pugeot's 
rooms,  where  overcoats  were  obtained.  Then 
they  started. 

Pugeot  was  nicknamed  the  Baby — Baby 
Pugeot — and  the  name  sometimes  applied. 
Mixed  with  his  passion  for  life,  he  loved  fresh 
air  and  a  good  many  innocent  things,  speed 
amongst  them.  Randall,  the  chauffeur,  seemed 
on  all  fours  with  him  in  the  latter  respect,  and 
the  Dragon-Fly  was  an  able  instrument.  Clear- 
i6o 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DRAGON-FLY, 

ing  London,  they  made  through  Sussex  for  the 
sea.  The  day  was  perfect  and  filled  for  miles 
with  the  hum  of  the  Dragon-Fly.  At  times  they 
were  doing  a  good  seventy  miles,  at  times  less ; 
then  came  the  Downs  and  a  vision  of  the  sea — 
seacoast  towns  through  which  they  passed  pick- 
ing up  petrol  and  liquid  refreshments.  At  Hast- 
ings, or  somewhere,  where  they  indulged  in  a 
light  and  early  dinner,  the  vision  of  Cerise,  al- 
ways like  a  guardian  angel,  arose  before  the  re- 
mains of  the  mind  of  Simon,  and  her  address. 
He  wanted  to  go  there  at  once,  which  was  mani- 
festly impossible.  He  tried  to  explain  her  to 
Pugeot,  who  at  the  same  time  was  trying  to  ex- 
plain a  dark-eyed  girl  he  had  met  at  a  dance  the 
week  before  last  and  who  was  haunting  him. 
**  Can't  get  her  blessed  eyes  out  of  my  head,  my 
dear  dhap;  and  she's  engaged  two  deep  to  a 
chap  In  the  Carabineers,  without  a  cent  to  his 
name  and  a  pile  of  debts  as  big  as  Mount  Ara- 
rat. She  won't  be  happy — that's  what's  gettin' 
me ;  she  won't  be  happy.  How  can  she  be  happy 
with  a  chap  like  that,  without  a  cent  to  his  name 
and  a  pile  of  debts?  Lord,  /  can't  understand 
women,  they're  beyond  me.  Waiter,  confound 
you !  do  you  call  this  stuff  asparagus  ?  Take  it 
away!  Not  a  cent  to  tier  name — and  tied  to 
him  for  years,  maybe.  I  mean  to  say,  it's 
i6i 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

absurd.  .  .  .  What  were  you  saying?  Oh  yes, 
I'll  take  you  there — It's  only  round  the  corner, 
so  to  speak.  Randall  will  do  it.  The  Dragon- 
Fly'll  have  us  there  in  no  time.  Do  you  re- 
member, was  this  Hastings  or  Bognor?  Waiter, 
hi!  Is  this  Hastings  or  Bognor?  All  your 
towns  are  so  confoundedly  alike  there's  no  tell- 
ing which  is  which,  and  I've  been  through 
twenty.  Hastings,  that'll  do ;  put  your  informa- 
tion down  in  the  bill — if  you  can  find  room  for 
it.  You  needn't  be  a  bit  alarmed,  old  chap, 
she'll  be  there  all  right.  You  said  you  sent  her 
those  flowers?  Well,  that  will  keep  her  all  right 
and  happy.  I  mean  to  say,  she'll  be  right — ab' 
solutely — I  know  women  from  hoof  to  mane. 
No,  no  pudding.    Bill,  please." 

Then  they  were  out  in  the  warm  summer 
twilight  listening  to  a  band.  Then  they  were 
getting  into  the  car,  and  Pugeot  was  saying  to 
Simon : 

"  It's  a  jolly  good  thing  we've  got  a  teetotum 
driver.    What  you  say,  old  chap?  " 

Then  the  warm  and  purring  night  took  them 
and  sprinkled  stars  over  them,  and  a  great  moon 
rose  behind,  which  annoyed  Pugeot,  who  kept 
looking  back  at  it,  abusing  it  because  the  re- 
flection from  the  wind-screen  got  in  his  eyes. 
Then  they  burst  a  tyre  and  Pugeot,  instantly 
162 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DRAGON-FLY 

becoming  condensedly  clever  and  active  and 
clear  of  speech,  insisted  on  putting  on  the  spare 
wheel  himself.  He  had  a  long  argument  with 
Randall  as  to  which  was  the  front  and  which 
was  the  back  of  the  wheel — not  the  sideways 
front  and  back,  but  the  foreways  front  and  back, 
Randall  Insisting  gently  that  It  did  not  matter. 
Then  the  wheel  on  and  all  the  nuts  re-tested  by 
Randall — an  operation  which  Pugeot  took  as  a 
sort  of  personal  Insult;  the  jack  was  taken 
down,  and  Pugeot  threw  It  Into  a  ditch.  They 
would  not  want  It  again  as  they  had  not  another 
spare  wheel,  and  It  was  a  nuisance  anyhow,  but 
Randall,  with  the  good  humour  and  patience 
which  came  to  him  from  a  salary  equal  to  the 
salary  of  a  country  curate,  free  quarters  and  big 
tips  and  perquisites,  recovered  the  jack  and  they 
started. 

A  town  and  an  Inn  that  absolutely  refused  to 
serve  the  smiling  motorists  with  anything 
stronger  than  "  minerals  "  was  passed.  Then 
ten  miles  further  on  the  lights  of  a  town  hull 
down  on  the  horizon  brought  the  dry  "  Insldes  " 
to  a  clear  consideration  of  the  position. 

The  town  developing  an  inn,   Randall  was 
sent,  as  the  dove  from  the  ark,  with  a  half- 
sovereign,  and  returned  with  a  stone  demijohn 
and  two  glasses.    It  was  beer, 
163 


CHAPTER  VII 

NINE    HUNDRED   POUNDS 

BOBBY  RAVENSHAW  did  not  spend 
the  day  at  the  Charing  Cross  Hotel 
waiting  for  Simon ;  he  amused  himself 
otherwise,  leaving  Mudd  to  do  the  waiting. 

At  eleven  o'clock  he  called  at  the  hotel.  Mr. 
Mudd  was  upstairs  in  Mr.  Pettigrew's  room, 
and  he  would  be  called  down. 

Bobby  thought  that  he  could  trace  a  lot  of 
things  in  the  porter's  tone  and  manner,  a  respect 
and  commiseration  for  Mr.  Mudd  and  perhaps 
not  quite  such  a  high  respect  for  himself  and 
Simon.  He  fancied  that  the  hotel  was  begin- 
ning to  have  its  eye  upon  him  and  Simon  as 
questionable  parties  of  the  bon  vivant  type — a 
fancy  that  may  have  been  baseless,  but  was  still 
there. 

Then  Mudd  appeared. 

"Well,  Mudd,"  said  Bobby,  "hasn't  he 
turned  up  yet?  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Robert." 

164 


NINE  HUNDRED  POUNDS 

"  Where  on  earth  can  he  be?  " 

"  I'm  glvln'  him  till  half-past  eleven,"  said 
Mudd,  "  and  then  Vm  off  to  Vine  Street." 

^' What  on  earth  for?" 

"  To  have  the  hospitals  circulated  to  ask 
about  him." 

*'  Oh,  nonsense !  " 

"  It's  on  my  mind  he's  had  an  accident,"  said 
Mudd.  "  Robbed  and  stunned,  or  drugged 
with  opium  and  left  in  the  street.  I  know 
London — and  him  as  he  is!  He'll  be  found 
with  his  pockets  inside  out — I  know  London. 
You  should  have  got  him  down  to  the  country 
to-day,  Mr.  Robert,  somewhere  quiet;  now, 
maybe,  it's  too  late." 

"  It's  very  easy  to  say  that.  I  tried  to,  and 
he  wouldn't  go,  not  even  to  Richmond.  Lon- 
don seems  to  hold  him  like  a  charm;  he's  like  a 
bee  in  a  bottle — can't  escape." 

At  this  moment  a  horrid  little  girl  in  a  big 
hat  and  feathers,  boots  too  large  for  her,  and  a 
shawl,  made  her  appearance  at  the  entrance 
door,  saw  the  hall  porter  and  came  towards 
him.    She  had  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

The  hall  porter  took  the  letter,  looked  at  it, 
and  brought  it  to  Mudd. 

Mudd  glanced  at  the  envelope  and  tore  it 
open. 

:i65 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  lo,  Duke  Street, 
"  Leicester  Square 
"  Mr.  Modd, 

"  Come  at  once. 

"Celestine  Rossignol." 

That  was  all,  written  in  an  angular,  old-fash- 
ioned hand  and  in  purple  ink. 

"Where's  my  hat?"  cried  Mudd,  running 
about  like  a  decapitated  fowl.  "  Where's  my 
hat?  Oh  ay,  it's  upstairs !  "  He  vanished,  and 
in  a  minute  reappeared  with  his  hat;  then,  with 
Bobby,  and  followed  by  the  dirty  little  girl 
trotting  behind  them,  off  they  started. 

They  tried  to  question  the  little  girl  on  the 
way,  but  she  knew  nothing  definite. 

The  gentleman  had  been  brought  'ome — 
didn't  know  what  was  wrong  with  him ;  the  lady 
had  given  her  the  letter  to  take;  that  was  all 
she  knew. 

*'  He's  alive,  anyway,"  said  Bobby. 

"  The  Lord  knows!  "  said  Mudd. 

The  little  girl  let  them  in  with  a  key  and, 
Mudd  leading  the  way,  up  the  stairs  they 
went. 

Mudd  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  sitting- 
room. 

Madame  and  Cerise  were  there,  quite  calm, 
i66 


NINE  HUNDRED  POUNDS 

and  evidently  waiting;  of  Simon  there  was  not 
a  trace. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Modd,"  cried  the  old  lady,  "  how 
fortunate  you  have  received  my  letter  I  Poor 
Monsieur  Pattigrew '* 

"He  ain^t  dead?"  cried  Mudd. 

No,  Simon  was  not  dead.  She  told.  Poor 
Monsieur  Pattigrew  and  a  very  big  gentleman 
had  arrived  over  an  hour  ago.  Mr.  Pattigrew 
could  not  stand;  he  had  been  taken  ill,  the  big 
gentleman  had  declared.  Such  a  nice  gentle- 
man, who  had  sat  down  and  cried  whilst  Mr. 
Pattigrew  had  been  placed  on  the  sofa — taken 
ill  in  the  street.  The  big  gentleman  had  gone 
for  a  doctor,  but  had  not  yet  returned.  Mr. 
Pattigrew  had  been  put  to  bed.  She  and  the 
big  gentleman  had  seen  to  that. 

Mr.  Pattigrew  had  recovered  consciousness 
for  a  moment  during  this  operation  and  had 
produced  a  number  of  bank-notes — such  a  num- 
ber! She  had  placed  them  safely  in  her  desk; 
that  was  one  of  the  reasons  she  had  sent  so 
urgently  for  Mr.  Modd. 

She  produced  the  notes — a  huge  sheaf. 

Mudd  took  them  and  examined  them  dazedly, 
hundreds  and  hundreds  of  pounds'  worth  of 
notes;  and  he  had  only  started  with  two  hun- 
dred pounds  I 

167 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  Why,  there's  nearly  a  thousand  pounds' 
worth  here,"  said  Mudd. 

Bobby's  astonishment  might  have  been 
greater  had  not  his  eyes  rested,  from  the  first 
moment  of  their  coming  in,  on  Cerise.  Cerise 
with  parted  lips,  a  heightened  colour,  and  the 
air  of  a  little  child  at  a  play  she  did  not  quite 
understand. 

She  was  lovely.  French,  innocent,  lovely  as 
a  flower — a  new  thing  in  London,  he  had  never 
seen  anything  quite  like  her  before.  The  pov- 
erty of  the  room.  Uncle  Simon,  his  worries  and 
troubles,  all  were  banished  or  eased.  She  was 
music,  and  if  Saul  could  have  seen  her  he  would 
have  had  no  need  for  David. 

Had  Uncle  Simon  added  burglary  to  knocker- 
snatching,  broken  into  a  jeweller's  and  disposed 
of  his  takings  to  a  "  fence,"  committed  robbery? 
All  these  thoughts  strayed  over  his  mind,  harm- 
less because  of  Cerise. 

The  unfortunate  young  man,  who  had  fooled 
so  long  with  girls,  had  met  the  girl  who  had  been 
waiting  for  him  since  the  beginning  of  the  world. 
There  is  always  that;  she  may  be  blowsy,  she 
may  be  plain,  or  lovely  like  Cerise — she  is  Fate. 

"  And  here  is  the  big  gentleman's  card,"  said 
Madame,  taking  a  visiting  card  from  her  desk, 
then  another  and  another. 
i68 


NINE  HUNDRED  POUNDS 

"  He  gave  me  three." 

Mudd  handed  the  card  to  Bobby,  who  read: 

**  The  Hon.  Richard  Pugeot, 
"  Pall  Mall  Place,  St.  James. 

"  Guards'  Club." 

"  I  know  him,"  said  Bobby.  "  Thafs  all 
right,  and  Uncle  Simon  couldn't  have  fallen  Into 
better  hands." 

"  Is,  then.  Monsieur  Pattlgrew  your  oncle?  " 
asked  the  old  lady. 

"  He  Is,  Madame." 

"  Then  you  are  thrice  welcome  here,  mon- 
sieur," said  she. 

Cerise  looked  the  words,  and  Bobby's  eyes  as 
they  met  hers  returned  thanks. 

"  Come,"  said  Madame,  "  you  shall  see  him 
and  that  he  Is  safe." 

She  gently  opened  the  door  leading  to  the 
bedroom,  and  there,  in  a  little  bed,  dainty  and 
white — Cerise's  little  bed — lay  Uncle  Simon, 
flushed  and  smiling  and  snoring. 

"  Poor  Monsieur  Pattlgrew  I  "  murmured  the 
old  lady. 

Then  they  withdrew. 

It  seemed  that  there  was  another  bed  to  be 
got  in  the  house  for  Cerise,  and  Mudd,  taking 
169 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

charge  of  the  patient,  the  ladies  withdrew.  It 
was  agreed  that  no  doctor  was  wanted.  It  was 
also  agreed  between  Bobby  and  Mudd  that  the 
hotel  was  impossible  after  this. 

"  We  must  get  him  away  to  the  country  to- 
morrow," said  Mudd,  "  if  he'll  go." 

"  He'll  go,  if  I  have  to  take  him  tied  up  and 
bound,"  said  Bobby.  "  My  nerves  won't  stand 
another  day  of  this.  Take  care  of  those  notes, 
Mudd,  and  don't  let  him  see  them.  They'll  be 
useful  getting  him  away.  I'll  be  round  as  early 
as  I  can.  I'll  see  Pugeot  and  get  the  rights  of 
the  matter  from  him.    Good  night" 

Off  he  went. 

In  the  street  he  paused  for  a  moment,  then  he 
took  a  passing  taxi  for  the  Albany. 

Tozer  was  in,  playing  patience  and  smoking. 
He  did  not  interrupt  his  game  for  the  other. 

"  Well,  how's  Uncle  Simon?  "  asked  Tozer. 

**  He's  asleep  at  last  after  a  most  rampageous 
day." 

"  You  look  pretty  sober." 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  Bobby,  going  to  a 
tantalus  case  and  helping  himself  to  some 
whisky.     "  My  nerves  are  all  unstrung." 

"  Trailing  after  him?  " 

"Thank  God,  no!  "  said  Bobby.    "Waiting 
for  him  to  turn  up  dead,  bruised,  battered,  or 
170 


NINE  HUNDRED  POUNDS 

simply  intoxicated  and  stripped  of  his  money. 
He  gave  me  the  slip  in  Piccadilly  with  two  hun- 
dred-pound notes  in  his  pocket.  The  next  place 
I  find  him  was  half  an  hour  ago  in  a  young 
lady's  bed,  dead  to  the  world,  smiling,  and  with 
nearly  a  thousand  pounds  in  bank-notes  he'd 
hived  somehow  during  the  day." 

"  A  thousand  pounds !  " 

"  Yes,  and  he'd  only  started  with  two  hun- 
dred." 

"  I  say,"  said  Tozer,  forgetting  his  cards, 
"  what  a  chap  he  must  have  been  when  he  was 
young!  " 

"  When  he  was  young!  Lord,  I  don't  want 
to  see  him  any  younger  than  he  is;  if  this  is 
youth,  give  me  old  age." 

"  You'll  get  it  fast  enough,"  said  Tozer, 
"  don't  you  worry;  and  this  will  be  a  reminder 
to  you  to  keep  old.  There's  an  Arab  proverb 
that  says,  *  There  are  two  things  colder  than  ice, 
an  old  young  man  and  a  young  old  man.*  " 

"  Colder  than  ice !  "  said  Bobby.  "  I  wish 
you  had  live  minutes  with  Uncle  Simon." 

**  But  who  was  this  lady — this  young " 

"  Two  of  the  nicest  people  on  earth,"  said 
Bobby,  "  an  old  lady  and  her  daughter — 
French.  He  saved  the  girl  in  an  omnibus  acci- 
dent or  something  in  one  of  his  escapades,  and 
171 


JHE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

took  her  home  to  her  mother.  Then  to-night  he 
must  have  remembered  them,  and  got  a  friend 
to  take  him  there.  Fancy,  the  cheek!  What 
made  him,  in  his  state,  able  to  remember 
them?'^ 

"  What  is  the  young  lady  like?  " 

**  She's  beautiful,"  said  Bobby;  then  he  took 
a  sip  of  whisky-and-soda  and  failed  to  meet 
Tozer's  eye  as  he  put  down  the  glass. 

"  That's  what  made  him  remember  her," 
said  Tozer. 

Bobby  laughed. 

*'  It's  no  laughing  matter,"  said  the  other,  "  at 
his  age — when  the  heart  is  young." 

Bobby  laughed  again. 

"  Bobby,"  said  Tozer,  "  beware  of  that  girl." 

"  I'm  not  thinking  of  the  girl,"  said  Bobby; 
"  I'm  thinking  how  on  earth  the  old  man " 

**  The  youth,  you  mean." 

"  Got  all  that  money." 

"  You're  a  liar,"  said  Tozer;  "  you  are  think- 
ing of  the  girl." 


172 


H 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PALL  MALL  PLACE 

iiT'    XIGGSI"  cried  the  Hon.  Richard 
Pugeot. 

"  Sir?  *'  answered  a  voice  from 
behind  the  silk  curtains  cutting  off  the  dressing 
and  bathroom  from  the  bedroom. 

"What  o'clock  is  it?" 

"  Just  gone  eight,  sir." 

"  Get  me  some  soda-water.'* 

"  Yes,  sir." 

The  Hon.  Richard  lay  still. 

Higgs,  a  clean-shaven  and  smart-looking 
young  man,  appeared  with  a  bottle  of  Schweppes 
and  a  tumbler  on  a  salver. 

The  cork  popped  and  the  sufferer  drank, 

"  What  o'clock  did  I  come  home?  " 

"  After  twelve,  sir — ^pretty  nigh  one." 

"  Was  there  anyone  with  me  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  No  old  gentleman?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

173 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  Was  Randall  there  ?  '» 

"  Yes,  sir.'' 

"And  the  car? ^ 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  There  was  no  old  gentleman  in  the  car?  " 

**  No,  sir." 

"  Good  heavens !  "  said  Pugeot.  "  What  can 
I  have  done  with  him?  " 

Higgs,  not  knowing,  said  nothing,  moving 
about  putting  things  in  order  and  getting 
his  master's  bath  ready. 

"  Fve  lost  an  old  gentleman,  Higgs,"  said 
Pugeot,  for  Higgs  was  a  confidential  servant  as 
well  as  a  valet. 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  said  Higgs,  as  though  losing 
old  gentlemen  was  as  common  as  losing  um- 
brellas. 

"  And  the  whole  business  is  so  funny  I  can 
scarcely  believe  it's  true.  I  haven't  a  touch  of 
the  jim-jams,  have  I,  Higgs?  " 

"  Lord,  sir,  no !    You're  all  right." 

"  Am  I  ?  See  here,  Higgs.  Yesterday  morn- 
ing I  met  old  Mr.  Simon  Pettigrew,  the  lawyer; 
mind,  you  are  to  say  nothing  about  this  to  any- 
one— but  stay  a  moment,  go  into  the  sitting- 
room  and  fetch  me  Who*s  JVho,'^ 

Higgs  fetched  the  book. 

"  *  Pettigrew,  Simon,'  "  read  out  Pugeot, 
174 


PALL  MALL  PLACE 

with  the  book  resting  on  his  knees,  "  *  Justice  of 
the  Peace  for  Herts — President  of  the  United 
Law  Society — Fellow  of  the  Society  of  Anti- 
quaries '  —  h'm,  h'm  —  *  Club,  Athenaeum.' 
Well,  I  met  the  old  gentleman  in  Piccadilly. 
We  went  for  a  spin  together,  and  the  last  thing 
I  remember  was  seeing  him  chasing  a  stableman 
round  some  inn  yard,  where  we  had  stopped  for 
petrol  or  whisky  or  something;  chasing  him 
round  with  a  bucket.  He  was  trying  to  put  the 
bucket  over  the  stableman's  head." 

"  Fresh,"  said  Higgs. 

"  As  you  say,  fresh — ^but  I  want  to  know,  was 
that  an  optical  illusion?  There  were  other 
things,  too.  If  it  wasn't  an  optical  illusion  I 
want  to  know  what  has  become  of  the  old 
gentleman?  I'm  nervous — for  he  did  me  a 
good  turn  once,  and  I  hope  to  heaven  I  haven't 
let  him  in  for  any  bother." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Higgs,  "  I  wouldn't  worry, 
not  if  I  were  you.  It  was  only  his  little  lark, 
and  most  likely  he's  home  safe  by  this." 

"  I  have  also  a  recollection  of  two  ladles 
that  got  mixed  up  in  the  affair,"  went  on  the 
other,  "  but  who  they  were  I  can't  say.  Little 
lark!  The  bother  of  it  is,  Higgs,  one  can't 
play  little  larks  like  that,  safely,  if  one  is 
a  highly  respectable  person  and  a  J.P.  and 
175 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

a    member    of    the    what's-its-name    society." 

He  got  up  and  tubbed  and  dressed,  greatly 
troubled  in  his  mind.  People  sucked  into  the 
Simon-whirl  were  generally  troubled  in  their 
minds,  so  great  is  the  Power  of  High  Respect- 
ability when  linked  to  the  follies  of  youth. 

At  breakfast  Mr.  Robert  Ravenshaw^s  card 
was  presented  by  Higgs. 

"  Show  him  in,"  said  Pugeot. 

"  Hullo,  Ravenshaw !  "  said  Pugeot.  "  Glad 
to  see  you.    Have  you  had  breakfast?  " 

"  Yes,  thanks.  I  only  called  for  a  moment  to 
see  you  about  my  uncle." 

"Which  uncle?" 

"  Pettigrew " 

*'  Good  heavens!    You  don't  say  he's " 

Bobby  explained. 

It  was  like  a  millstone  removed  from  Pu- 
geot's  neck. 

Then  he,  in  his  turn,  explained. 

Then  Bobby  went  into  details. 

Then  they  consulted. 

"  You  can't  get  him  out  of  London  without 
telling  him  where  you  are  taking  him  to,"  said 
Pugeot.  "  He'll  kick  the  car  over  on  the  road 
if  he's  anything  like  what  he  was  last  night. 
Leave  it  to  me  and  Fll  do  the  trick.  But  the 
question  is,  where  shall  we  take  him  ?  There's 
-1 7  6 


PALL  MALL  PLACE 

no  use  going  to  a  place  like  Brighton ;  too  many 
attractions  for  him.  A  moated  grange  is  what 
he  wants,  and  even  then  he'll  be  tumbling  into 
the  moat." 

"  I  know  of  a  place,"  said  Bobby,  "  down  at 
Upton-on-Hill.  A  girl  told  me  of  it;  it's  the 
Rose  Hotel." 

*'  I  know  it,"  said  Pugeot;  "  couldn't  be  bet- 
ter. I  have  a  cousin  there  living  at  a  place 
called  The  Nook.  There's  a  bowling-green  at 
the  hotel  and  a  golf-course  near.  Can't  hurt 
himself.    Leave  it  all  to  me." 

He  told  Higgs  to  telephone  for  the  car,  and 
then  they  sat  and  smoked  whilst  Pugeot  showed 
Bobby  just  the  way  to  deal  with  people  of 
Uncle  Simon's  description. 

"  It's  all  nonsense,  that  doctor  man's  talk," 
said  Pugeot.  "  The  poor  old  chap  has  shed  a 
nut  or  two.  I  ought  to  know  something  about 
it  for  I've  had  the  same  bother  in  my  family. 
Got  his  youth  back — pish !  Cracked,  that's  the 
real  name  for  it.  I've  seen  it.  I've  seen  my 
own  uncle,  when  he  was  seventy,  get  his  youth 
back — and  the  last  time  I  saw  him  he  was  pulling 
a  toy  elephant  along  with  a  string.  He'd  got  a 
taste  also  for  playing  with  matches.  Is  that 
the  car,  Higgs?  Well,  come  along,  and  let's 
try  the  power  of  a  little  gentle  persuasion." 

:i77 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

Simon  was  finishing  breakfast  when  they 
arrived,  assisted  by  Madame  and  Cerise.  Poor 
Monsieur  Pattigrew  did  not  seem  in  the  least  in 
the  need  of  pity  either,  though  the  women  hung 
about  him  as  women  hang  about  an  invalid. 
He  was  talking  and  laughing,  and  he  greeted 
the  newcomers  as  good  companions  who  had 
just  turned  up.  His  geniality  was  not  to  be  de- 
nied, and  it  struck  Bobby,  in  a  weird  sort  of 
manner,  that  Uncle  Simon  like  this  was  a  much 
pleasanter  person  than  the  old  original  article. 
Like  this:  that  is  to  say,  for  a  moment  out  of 
danger  from  the  vicious  grinding  wheels  of  a 
city  that  destroys  butterflies  and  a  society  that 
requests  respectable  old  solicitors  to  remain  re- 
spectable old  solicitors. 

Then,  the  women  having  discreetly  retired 
for  a  while,  Pugeot  began  his  gentle  persuasion. 

Uncle  Simon,  with  visions  of  yesterday^s 
rural  pleasures  in  his  mind,  required  no  per- 
suasion, and  he  would  come  for  a  run  into  the 
country  with  pleasure ;  but  Pugeot  was  not  tak- 
ing that  sort  of  thing  on  any  more.  He  was 
gay,  but  a  very  little  of  that  sort  of  gaiety 
sufficed  him  for  a  long  time. 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  said  he;  "I  mean 
let's  go  down  and  stay  for  a  while  quietly  at 
some  nice  place — I  mean  you  and  Ravenshaw 

178 


PALL  MALL  PLACE 

here — for  business  will  oblige  me  to  come  back 
to  town." 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Simon;  "I'm  quite 
happy  in  London." 

"  But  think  how  nice  It  will  be  in  the  country 
this  weather,"  said  Bobby.     "  London's  so  hot." 

"  I  like  it  hot,"  said  Simon;  "  weather  can't 
be  too  hot  for  me." 

Then  the  gentle  persuaders  alternately  began 
offering  inducements — bowls,  golf,  a  jolly  bar 
at  an  hotel  they  knew,  even  girls. 

They  might  just  as  well  have  been  offering 
buns  to  the  lions  of  Trafalgar  Square. 

Then  Bobby  had  an  idea,  and,  leaving  the 
room,  he  had  a  conference  on  the  stairs  with 
Madame  Rossignol;  with  Cerise  also. 

Then  leaving  Simon  to  the  women  for  a 
while,  they  went  for  a  walk,  and  returned  to  find 
the  marble  wax. 

Simon  did  not  mind  a  few  days  in  the  country 
if  the  ladies  would  come  as  his  guests;  he  was 
enthusiastic  on  the  subject  now.  They  would 
all  go  and  have  a  jolly  time  in  the  country.  The 
old  poetical  instinct  that  had  not  shown  itself  up 
to  this,  restrained,  no  doubt,  by  the  mesmerism 
of  London,  seemed  to  be  awakening  and  promis- 
ing new  developments. 

Bobby  did  not  care;  poetry  or  a  PIckford's 
179 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

van  were  all  the  same  to  him  as  long  as  they  got 
Simon  out  of  London. 

He  had  promised  Julia  Delyse,  if  you  re- 
member, to  see  her  that  day,  but  he  had  quite 
forgotten  her  for  the  moment. 


1 80 


CHAPTER  IX 


JULIA 


SHE  hadn't  forgotten  him. 
Juha,  with  her  hair  down,  In  an  eau- 
de-Nile  morning  wrapper,  and  frying 
bacon  over  a  Duplex  oilstove,  was  not  lovely — 
though,  indeed,  few  of  us  are  lovely  in  the  early 
morning.  She  had  started  the  flat  before  she 
was  famous.  It  was  a  bachelor  girl's  flat,  where 
the  bachelor  girl  was  supposed  to  do  her  own 
cooking  as  far  as  breakfast  and  tea  were  con- 
cerned. Money  coming  in,  Julia  had  re-fur- 
nished the  flat  and  requisitioned  the  part-time 
service  of  a  maid. 

Like  the  doctors  of  Harley  Street  who  share 
houses,  she  shared  the  services  of  the  maid  with 
another  flat-dweller,  the  maid  coming  to  Julia 
after  three  o'clock  to  tidy  up  and  to  bring  in 
afternoon  tea  and  admit  callers.  She  was  quite 
well  enough  off  to  have  employed  a  whole  maid, 
but  she  was  careful — her  publishers  could  have 
told  you  that. 

The  bacon  fried  and  breakfast   over   and 
i8i 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

cleared  away,  Julia,  with  her  hair  still  down, 
set  to  work  at  the  cleared  table  before  a  pile  of 
papers  and  account-books. 

Never  could  you  have  imagined  her  the  Julia 
of  the  other  evening  discoursing  *'  literature  " 
with  Bobby. 

She  employed  no  literary  agent,  being  that 
rare  thing,  a  writer  with  an  instinct  for  business. 
When  you  see  vast  publishing  houses  and 
opulent  publishers  rolling  In  their  motor-cars 
you  behold  an  optical  illusion.  What  you  see, 
or,  rather,  what  you  ought  to  see,  is  a  host  of 
writers  without  the  Instinct  for  business. 

Julia,  seated  before  her  papers  and  turning 
them  over  in  search  of  a  letter,  came  just  now 
upon  the  first  letter  she  had  ever  received  from 
a  publisher,  a  very  curt,  business-like  communi- 
cation saying  that  the  publisher  thought  he  saw 
his  way  to  the  publishing  of  her  MS.  entitled 
"  The  World  at  the  Gate,"  and  requesting  an 
interview.  With  it  was  tied,  as  a  sort  of  curi- 
osity, the  agreement  that  had  been  put  before 
her  to  sign  and  which  she  had  not  signed. 

It  gave — or  would  have  given — the  publisher 
the  copyright  and  half  the  American,  serial, 
dramatic  and  other  rights.  It  offered  ten  per 
cent,  on  the  published  price  of  all  copies  sold 
after  the  first  five  hundred  copies ;  It  stipulated 
182 


JULIA 

that  she  should  give  him  the  next  four  novels  on 
the  same  terms  as  an  inducement  to  advertise 
the  book  properly — and  it  had  drawn  from 
Julia  the  prompt  reply,  "  Send  the  typescript  of 
my  novel  back  at  once/* 

So  ended  the  first  lesson. 

Then,  heartened  by  this  evidently  good  opin- 
ion of  her  work,  she  had  gone  to  another  pub- 
lisher? Not  a  bit — or  at  least,  not  at  first.  She 
had  joined  the  Society  of  Authors — an  act  as 
necessary  to  the  making  of  a  successful  author 
as  baptism  to  the  making  of  a  Christian.  She 
had  studied  the  publishing  tribe,  its  ways  and 
its  works,  discovered  that  they  had  no  more  love 
for  books  than  greengrocers  for  potatoes,  and 
that  such  a  love,  should  it  exist,  would  be 
unhealthy.  For  no  seller  of  commodities  ought 
to  love  the  commodities  he  sells. 

Then  she  had  gone  to  a  great  impudently- 
advertising  roaring  trading-firm  that  dealt  with 
books  as  men  deal  with  goods  in  bulk,  and, 
interviewing  the  manager  as  man  to  man,  had 
driven  her  bargain,  and  a  good  one,  too. 

These  people  published  poets  and  men  of 
letters — but  they  respected  Julia. 

Free  of  creative  work  this  morning,  she 
could  give  her  full  attention  to  accounts  and  so 
forth. 

183 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

Then  she  turned  to  a  little  book  which  she 
sometimes  scribbled  in,  and  the  contents  of  which 
she  had  a  vague  idea  of  some  time  publishing 
under  a  pseudonym.  It  was  entitled  "  Never," 
and  it  was  not  poetry.  It  was  a  thumb-book  for 
authors,  made  up  of  paragraphs,  some  long, 
some  short. 

"  Never  dine  with  a  publisher — ^luncheon  is 
even  worse." 

"  Never  give  free  copies  of  books  to  friends, 
or  lend  them.  The  given  book  is  not  valued, 
the  lent  book  is  always  lost — ^besides,  the  book- 
sellers and  lending  libraries  are  your  real 
friends." 

"  Never  lower  your  price." 

**  Never  attempt  to  raise  your  public." 

"  Never  argue  with  a  critic." 

"  Never  be  elated  with  good  reviews,  or  de- 
pressed by  bad  reviews,  or  enraged  by  base  re- 
views. The  Public  is  your  reviewer — It  knows," 
and  so  on. 

She  shut  up  "  Never,"  having  included: 

"  Never  give  a  plot  away."  Then  she  did 
her  hair  and  thought  of  Bobby. 

He  had  not  fixed  what  hour  he  would  call; 
that  was  a  clause  in  the  agreement  she  had 
forgotten — she,  who  was  so  careful  about 
agreements,  too. 

:i84 


JULIA 

Then  she  dressed  and  sat  down  to  read  "  De 
Maupassant "  and  smoke  a  cigarette. 

She  had  luncheon  in  the  restaurant  below 
stairs  and  then  returned  to  the  flat.  Tea-time 
came  and  no  Bobby. 

She  felt  piqued,  put  on  her  hat,  and  as  the 
mountain  would  not  come  to  Mohammed,  Mo- 
hammed determined  to  go  to  the  mountain. 

Her  memory  held  his  address,  "  care  of 
Tozer,  B12,  the  Albany.'* 

She  walked  to  the  Albany,  arriving  there  a 
little  after  five  o'clock,  found  B12,  and  climbed 
the  stairs. 

Tozer  was  in,  and  he  opened  the  door  him- 
self. 

"Is  Mr.  Ravenshaw  at  home?"  asked 
Julia. 

"  No,"  said  Tozer;  "  he's  away,  gone  to  the 
country." 

"  Gone  to  the  country?  " 

"  Yes;  he  went  to-day." 

Tozer  had  at  once  spotted  Julia  as  the  Lady 
of  the  Plot.  He  was  as  unconventional  as  she, 
and  he  wanted  further  acquaintance  with  this 
fascinator  of  his  protege. 

"  I  think  we  are  almost  mutual  acquaint- 
ances," said  he;  "won't  you  come  in?  My 
name  is  Tozer  and  Ravenshaw  is  my  best  friend. 

185 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  about  him.     Won't  you 
come  in?  " 

*'  Certainly,"  said  the  other.  "  My  name  is 
Delyse — I  daresay  you  know  it." 

"  I  know  it  well,"  said  Tozer. 

"  I  don't  mean  by  my  books,"  said  Julia, 
taking  her  seat  in  the  comfortable  sitting-room, 
"  but  from  Mr.  Ravenshaw." 

"  From  both,"  said  Tozer,  "  and  what  I  want 
to  see  is  Ravenshaw's  name  as  well  known  as 
yours  some  day.  Bobby  has  been  a  spendthrift 
with  his  time,  and  he  has  lots  of  cleverness." 

"  Lots,"  said  Julia. 

Tozer,  who  had  a  keen  eye  for  character,  had 
passed  Julia  as  a  sensible  person — ^he  had  never 
seen  her  in  one  of  her  love-fits — and  she  was  a 
lady.    Just  the  person  to  look  after  Bobby. 

"  He  has  gone  down  to  the  country  to-day 
with  an  old  gentleman,  his  uncle." 

**  I  know  all  about  him,^'  said  Julia. 

"  Bobby  has  told  you,  then?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  About  the  attack  of  youth?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  a  whole  family  party  of  them  went 
off  in  a  motor-car  to-day.  Bobby  called  here 
for  his  luggage  and  I  went  into  Vigo  Street  and 
saw  them  off." 

1 86 


JULIA 

"  How  do  you  mean — a  family  party?  " 

"  The  youthful  old  gentleman  and  a  big 
blonde  man,  and  Bobby,  and  an  old  lady  and  a 
pretty  girl/' 

Julia  swallowed  slightly. 

"Relations?" 

"  No,  French,  I  think,  the  ladies  were.  Quite 
nice  people,  I  believe,  though  poor.  The  old 
gentleman  had  picked  them  up  in  some  of  his 
wanderings." 

*'  Bob — Mr.  Ravenshaw  promised  to  see  me 
to-day,"  said  Julia.  "  We  are  engaged — I 
speak  quite  frankly — at  least,  as  good  as  en- 
gaged, you  can  understand." 

"  Quite." 

"  He  ought  to  have  let  me  know,"  said  she 
broodingly. 

"  He  ought." 

"  Have  they  gone  to  Upton-on-Hill,  do  you 
know?" 

"  They  have.    The  Rose  Hotel." 

Julia  thought  for  awhile.    Then  she  got  up  to 

go- 

"  If   you    want    my   opinion,"    said   Tozer, 

*'  I  think  the  whole  lot  want  looking  after. 
They  seemed  quite  a  pleasant  party,  but  re- 
sponsibility seemed  somewhat  absent;  the  old 
lady,  charming  though  she  was,  seemed  to  me 

187 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

scarcely  enough  ballast  for  so  much  youth." 
"  I  understand,"  said  Julia.    Then  she  went 
off  and  Tozer  lit  a  pipe. 

The  pretty  young  French  girl  was  troubling 
him.  She  had  charmed  even  him — and  he  knew 
Bobby,  and  his  wisdom  indicated  that  a  penni- 
less beauty  was  not  the  first  rung  of  the  ladder 
to  success  in  life. 

Julia,  on  the  other  hand,  was  solid.  So  he 
thought. 


im 


PART  IV 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  GARDEN-PARTY 

UPTON-ON-HILL  stands  on  a  hog- 
back  of  land  running  north  and  south, 
timbered  with  pines  mostly,  and 
commanding  a  view  of  half  Wessex,  not  the 
Wessex  of  Thomas  Hardy,  however.  You  cant 
see  seven  church  spires  from  Upton,  and  the 
Roman  road  takes  it  in  its  sweep,  becomes  the 
Upton  High  Street  for  a  moment,  and  passes  on 
to  be  the  Roman  road  again  leading  to  the 
Downs  and  the  distant  sea. 

It  is  a  restful  place,  and  in  spring  the  shouting 
of  the  birds  and  the  measured  call  of  the  cuckoo 
fills  the  village,  mixing  with  the  voice  of  the 
ever-talking  pine-trees.  In  summer  Upton 
sleeps  amongst  roses  in  an  atmosphere  of 
sunlight  and  drowsiness,  sung  to  by  the  bees  and 
the  birds.  The  Rose  Hotel  stands,  set  back 
from  the  High  Street,  in  its  own  grounds,  and 
beside  the  Rose  there  are  two  other  houses  for 
refreshment,  the  Bricklayer's  Arms  and  the 
Saracen's  Head,  of  which  more  hereafter. 
191 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

It  IS  a  pleasant  place  as  well  as  a  restful. 
Passing  through  it,  people  say,  "  Oh,  what  a 
dream  I  '* ;  living  in  it  one  is  driven  at  last  to 
admit  there  are  dreams  and  dreams.  It  is  not 
the  place  that  forces  this  conviction  but  the 
people. 

Just  as  the  Roman  road  narrows  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  High  Street,  so  the  life  of  a 
stranger  coming,  say,  from  London,  narrows  at 
the  beginning  of  his  or  her  residence  in  Upton. 
If  you  are  a  villager  you  find  yourself  under  a 
microscope  with  three  hundred  eyes  at  the 
eyepiece;  if  you  are  a  genteel  person,  but 
without  introductions,  you  find  yourself  the 
target  of  half  a  score  of  telescopes  levelled  at 
you  by  the  residents. 

Colonel  Salmon — ^who  owned  the  fishing 
rights  of  the  trout-stream  below  hill — the  Tal- 
bot-Tomsons,  the  Griffith-Smiths,  the  Grosven- 
or-Jones  and  the  rest,  all  these,  failing  intro- 
ductions, you  will  find  to  be  passive  resisters  to 
your  presence. 

Now,  caution  towards  strangers  and  snob- 
bishness are  two  different  things.  The  Upton- 
ians  are  snobbish  because,  though  you  may  be  as 
beautiful  as  a  dream  or  as  innocent  as  a  saint, 
you  will  be  sniffed  at  and  turned  over;  but  if  you 
are  wealthy  it  is  another  matter,  as  in  the  case 
192 


THE  GARDEN-PARTY 

of  the  Smyth-Smyths,  who  were  neither  beauti- 
ful nor  innocent — but  that  is  another  story. 

"  The  village  is  a  mile  further  on,"  said 
Pugeot;  "  let's  turn  down  here  before  we  go  to 
the  hotel  and  have  afternoon  tea  with  my 
cousin.     Randall,  steer  for  The  Nook.'' 

The  car  was  not  the  Dragon-Fly,  but  a  huge 
closed  limousine,  with  Mudd  seated  beside 
Randall,  and  inside,  the  rest  of  that  social 
menagerie  about  to  be  landed  on  the  residents 
of  Upton  upon  the  landing-stage  of  the  social 
position  of  Dick  Pugeot' s  cousin,  Sir  Squire 
Simpson. 

All  the  introductions  in  the  world  could  not 
be  better  than  the  personal  introduction  to  the 
Resident  of  Upton  by  the  Hon.  Richard  Pugeot. 

They  passed  lodge  gates  and  then  up  a  pleas- 
ant drive  to  a  big  house-front,  before  which  a 
small  garden-party  seemed  to  be  going  on;  a 
big  afternoon  tea  it  was,  and  there  were  men  in 
flannels,  and  girls  in  summer  frocks,  and  dis- 
carded tennis  racquets  lying  about,  and  the  sight 
of  all  this  gave  Bobby  a  horrible  turn. 

Uncle  Simon  had  been  very  quiet  during  the 

journey — happy  but  quiet — squeezed  between 

the  two  women,  but  this  was  not  the  sort  of  place 

he  wanted  to  land  Uncle  Simon  in  despite  his 

193 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

quietude  and  happiness.  Mudd  evidently  also 
had  qualms,  for  he  kept  looking  back  through 
the  glass  front  of  the  car  and  seemed  trying  to 
catch  Bobby's  eye. 

But  there  was  no  turning  back. 

The  car  swept  along  the  drive,  past  the  party 
on  the  lawn,  and  drew  up  at  the  front  door. 
Then,  as  they  bundled  out,  a  tall  old  man,  with- 
out a  hat  and  dressed  in  grey  tweed,  detached 
himself  from  the  lawn  crowd  and  came  to- 
wards them. 

This  was  Sir  Squire  Simpson,  Bart.  His  head 
was  dome-shaped,  and  he  had  heavy  eyelids  that 
reminded  one  of  half-closed  shutters,  and  a  face 
that  seemed  carved  from  old  ivory — an  ex- 
tremely serious-looking  person  and  a  stately; 
but  he  was  glad  to  see  Pugeot,  and  he  advanced 
with  a  hand  outstretched  and  the  ghost  of  an 
old-fashioned  sort  of  smile. 

"  I've  brought  some  friends  down  to  stay  at 
the  hotel,"  said  Pugeot,  "  and  I  thought  we 
would  drop  in  here  for  tea  first.  Didn't  expect 
to  find  a  party  going  on." 

"  Delighted,"  said  the  Squire. 

He  was  introduced  to  "  My  friend,  Mr. 
Pettigrew,  Madame — er — de  Rossignol,  Made- 
moiselle de  Rossignol,  Mr.  Ravenshaw." 

Then  the  party  moving  towards  the  lawn, 
194 


THE  GARDEN-PARTY 

'they  were  all  introduced  to  Lady  Simpson,  a 
harmless-looking  individual  who  welcomed  them 
and  broke  them  up  amongst  her  guests  and  gave 
them  tea. 

Bobby,  detaching  himself  for  a  moment  from 
the  charms  of  Miss  Squire  Simpson,  managed  to 
get  hold  of  Pugeot. 

"  I  say,"  said  he,  "  don't  you  think  this  may 
be  a  bit  too  much  for  uncle?  '' 

"Oh,  he's  all  right,"  said  Pugeot;  "can't 
come  to  any  harm  here.  Look  at  him,  he's  quite 
happy." 

Simon  seemed  happy  enough,  talking  to  a 
dowager-looking  woman  and  drinking  his  tea; 
but  Bobby  was  not  happy.  It  all  seemed  wrong, 
somehow,  and  he  abused  Pugeot  in  his  heart. 
Pugeot  had  said  himself  a  moated  grange  was 
the  proper  place  for  Uncle  Simon,  and  even  then 
he  might  tumble  into  the  moat — and  now,  with 
the  splendid  inconsequence  of  his  nature,  he  had 
tumbled  him  into  this  whirl  of  local  society. 
This  was  not  seclusion  in  the  country.  Why, 
some  of  these  people  might,  by  chance,  be  Uncle 
Simon's  clients! 

But  there  was  no  use  in  troubling,  and  he 

could  do  nothing  but  watch  and  hope.     He 

noticed  that  the  women-folk  had  evidently  taken 

up  with  Cerise  and  her  mother,  and  he  could  not 

LI9S 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

but  wonder  vaguely  how  it  would  have  been  if 
they  could  have  seen  the  rooms  in  Duke  Street, 
Leicester  Square,  and  the  picture  of  Uncle 
Simon  tucked  up  and  snoring  in  Cerise's  little 
bed. 

The  tennis  began?  again,  and  Bobby,  firmly 
pinned  by  Miss  Squire  Simpson — she  was  a 
plain  girl — had  to  sit  watching  a  game  and  try- 
ing to  talk. 

The  fact  that  Madame  and  Cerise  were  for- 
eigners had  evidently  condoned  their  want  of 
that  touch  in  dress-  which  makes  for  style. 
They  were  being  led  about  and  shown  things  by 
their  hostess. 

Uncle  Simon  had  vanished  towards  the  rose- 
garden  at  the  back  of  the  house,  in  company 
with  a  female;  she  seemed  elderly.  Bobby 
hoped  for  the  best. 

"  Are  you  down  here  for  long?  "  asked  Miss 
Squire  Simpson. 

"  Not  very  long,  I  think,'*  replied  he.  "  We 
may  be  here  a  month  or  so — it  all  depends  on 
my  uncle's  health." 

"  That  gentleman  you  came  with?  " 

"  Yes.'* 

"  He  seems  awfully  jolly." 

"  Yes — ^but  he  suffers  from  insomnia." 

"  Then  he'll  get  lots  of  sleep  here,"  said  she. 
196 


THE  GARDEN-PARTY 

"  Oh,  do  tell  me  the  name  of  that  pretty  girl 
who  came  with  you !  I  never  can  catch  a  name 
when  I  am  introduced  to  a  person.'^ 

"  A  Miss  Rossignol — she's  a  friend  of  tincle's 
^— she's  French." 

"  And  the  dear  old  lady  is  her  mother,  I 
suppose?  " 

"  Yes.    She  writes  books." 

"An  authoress?" 

"  Yes — at  least,  I  believe  she  translates 
books.    She  is  awfully  clever." 

"  Well  played !  "  cried  Miss  Squire  Simpson, 
breaking  from  the  subject  into  an  ecstasy  at  a 
stroke  made  by  one  of  the  flannelled  fools — 
then  resuming: 

"  She  must  be  clever.  And  are  you  all  stay- 
ing here  together?  " 

"  Yes,  at  the  Rose  Hotel." 

"You  will  find  it  a  dear  little  place,"  said 
she,  unconscious  of  any  double  entendre,  **  and 
you  will  get  lots  of  tennis  down  here.    Do  you 
fish?" 
'    "Alittle."^ 

"  Then  you  must  make  up  to  Colonel  Salmon 
— that's  him  at  the  nets — ^be  owns  the  best 
trout-stream  about  here.  '-■ 

Bobby  looked  at  Colonel  Salmon,  a  stout, 
red-faced  man  with  a  head  that  resembled  some- 
197 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

what  the  head  of  a  salmon — a  salmon  with  a 
high  sense  of  its  own  importance. 

Then  Pugeot  came  along  smoking  a  cigarette, 
and  then  some  of  the  people  began  to  go.  The 
big  limousine  reappeared  from  the  back  prem- 
ises with  Mudd  and  the  luggage,  and  Pugeot 
began  to  collect  his  party.  Simon  reappeared 
with  the  elderly  lady;  they  were  both  smiling 
and  he  had  evidently  done  no  harm.  It  would 
have  been  better,  perhaps,  if  he  had,  right  at 
the  start.  The  French  ladies  were  recaptured, 
and  as  they  bundled  into  the  car  quite  a  bevy 
of  residents  surrounded  the  door,  bidding  them 
good-bye  for  the  present. 

"  Remember,  you  must  come  and  see  my 
roses,"  said  Mrs.  Fisher-Fisher.  "  Don't 
bother  about  formality,  just  drop  in,  all  of  you." 

"  You'll  find  Anderson  stopping  at  the  hotel; 
he's  quite  a  nice  fellow*,"  cried  Sir  Squire  Simp- 
son.   "  So  long — so  lon^." 

"  Are  they  not  charming?  "  said  old  Madame 
Rossignol,  whose  face  was  slightly  flushed  with 
the  good  time  she  had  leen  having;'"  and  the 
beautiful  house — and  the  beautiful  garden." 

She  had  not  seen  a  garden  for  years ;  verily, 
Simon  was  a  good  fairy  as  far  as  the  Rossignols 
were  concerned. 

They  drew  up  at  the  Rose  Hotel.  A  vast 
198 


THE  GARDEN-PARTY 

dambering  vine  of  wisteria  shadowed  the  hall 
door,  and  out  came  the  landlord  to  meet  them. 
Pugeot  had  telegraphed  for  rooms;  he  knew 
Pugeot,  and  his  reception  of  them  spoke  of  the 
fact. 

Then  the  Rossignols  were  shown  to  their 
room,  where  their  poor  luggage,  such  as  it  was, 
had  been  carried  before  them. 

It  was  a  big  bedroom,  with  chintz  hangings 
and  a  floor  with  hills  and  valleys  in  it;  it  had 
black  oak  beams  and  the  window  opened  on  the 
garden. 

The  old  lady  sat  down. 

"  How  happy  I  am!  "  said  she.  "  Does  it 
not  seem  like  a  dream,  ma  fee?  ** 

"  It  is  like  heaven,"  said  Cerise,  kissing  her. 


199 


CHAPTER  II 


HORN 


N 


66^%^  yO,  sir,"  said  Mudd,  "  he  don't  take 
scarcely  anything  in  the  bar  of  the 
hotel,  but  he  was  sitting  last  night 
till  closing-time  in  the  Bricklayer^s  Arms.'* 

"  Oh,  that's  where  he  was,"  said  Bobby. 
**  How  did  you  find  out?  '* 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mudd,  "  I  was  in  there 
myself  in  the  parlour,  having  a  drop  of  hot 
water  and  gin  with  a  bit  of  lemon  in  it.  It's  a 
decent  house,  and  the  servants'  room  in  this 
hotel  don't  please  me,  nor  Mr.  Anderson's  man. 
I  was  "itting  there  smoking  my  pipe  when  in  he 
came  to  the  bar  outside.  I  heard  his  voice. 
Down  he  sits  and  talks  quite  friendly  with  the 
folk  there  and  orders  a  pint  of  beer  all  round. 
Quite  affable  and  friendly." 

"  Well,  there's  no  harm  in  that,"  said  Bobby. 
"  I've  often  done  the  same  in  a  country  inn. 
Did  he  stick  to  beer?  " 

''  He  did,"  said  Mudd  grimly.  "  He'd  got 
that  ten-pound  note  I  was  fool  enough  to  let  faim 
200 


HORN 

have.  Yes,  he  stuck  to  beer,  and  so  did  the 
chaps  he  was  treating." 

"The  funny  thing  is,"  said  Bobby,  "that 
though  he  knows  we  have  his  money — and,  be- 
gad, there's  nearly  eleven  thousand  of  it — he 
doesn't  kick  at  our  taking  it — ^he  must  have 
known  we  cut  open  that  portmanteau — ^but 
comes  to  you  for  money  like  a  schoolboy." 

"  That's  what  he  is,"  said  Mudd.  "  It's  my 
belief,  Mr.  Robert,  that  he's  getting  younger 
and  younger;  he's  artful  as  a  child  after  sweets. 
And  he  knows  we're  looking  after  him,  I  be- 
lieve, and  he  doesn't  mind,  for  it's  part  of  his 
amusement  to  give  us  the  slip.  Well,  as  I  was 
saying,  there  he  sat  talking  away  and  all  these 
village  chaps  listening  to  him  as  if  he  was  the 
Sultan  of  Turkey  laying  down  the  law.  That's 
what  pleased  him.  He  likes  being  the  middle 
of  everything;  and  as  the  beer  went  down  the 
talk  went  up — till  he  was  telling  them  he'd  been 
at  the  battle  of  Waterloo." 

"Good  Lord  I" 

''  They  didn't  know  no  different,"  said  Mudd, 
**  but  it  made  me  crawl  to  listen  to  him." 

"  The  bother  is,"  said  Bobby,  "  that  we  are 

dealing,  not  only  with  a  young  man,  but  with  the 

sort  of  young  man  who  was  young  forty  years 

ago.     That's   our   trouble,    Mudd;   we   can'|: 

20 1 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

calculate  on  what  he'll  do  because  we  haven't 
the  data.  And  another  bother  is  that  his  fool- 
ishness seems  to  have  increased  by  being  bottled 
so  long,  like  old  beer,  but  he  can't  come  to 
harm  with  the  villagers,  they're  an  innocent  lot." 

"Are  they?"  said  Mudd.  "One  of  the 
chaps  he  was  talking  to  was  a  gallows-looking 
chap.  Horn's  his  name,  and  a  poacher  he  is,  I 
believe.  Then  there's  the  blacksmith  and  a 
squint-eyed  chap  that  calls  himself  a  butcher; 
the  pair  of  them  aren't  up  to  much.  Innocent 
lot!  Why,  if  you  had  the  stories  Mr.  Ander- 
son's man  has  told  me  about  this  village  the  hair 
would  rise  on  your  head.  Why,  London's  a  girl- 
school  to  these  country  villages,  if  all's  true  one 
hears.  No,  Mr.  Robert,  he  wants  looking  after 
here  more  than  anywhere,  and  it  seems  to  me 
the  only  person  who  has  any  real  hold  on  him  is 
the  young  lady." 

"  Miss  Rossignol?" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Robert,  he's  gone  on  her  in  his 
foolish  way,  and  she  can  twist  him  round  her 
finger  like  a  child.  When  he's  with  her  he's  a 
different  person,  out  of  sight  of  her  he's  an- 
other man." 

"  Look  here,  Mudd,"  said  the  other,  "  he 
can't  be  in  love  with  her,  for  there's  not  a  girl 
he  sees  he  doesn't  cast  his  eye  after." 

202 


HORN 

"  Maybe,"  said  Mudd,  *'  but  when  he's  with 
her  he's  in  love  with  her;  I've  been  watching 
him  and  I  know.  He  worships  her,  I  believe, 
and  if  she  wasn't  so  sensible  I'd  be  afeard  of  it. 
It's  a  blessing  he  came  across  her;  she's  the 
only  hold  on  him,  and  a  good  hold  she  is." 

"  It  is  a  blessing,"  said  Bobby.  Then,  after 
a  pause,  "  Mudd,  you've  always  been  a  good 
friend  of  mine,  and  this  business  has  made  me 
know  what  you  really  are.  I'm  bothered  about 
something — I'm  in  love  with  her  myself. 
There,  you  have  it." 

"With  Miss  Rossignol?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  you  might  choose  worse,"  said  Mudd. 

"  But  that's  not  all,"  said  Bobby.  "  There's 
another  girl — Mudd,  I've  been  a  damn  fool." 

"  We've  all  been  fools  in  our  time,"  said 
Mudd. 

"  I  know,  but  it's  jolly  unpleasant  when  one's 
follies  come  home  to  roost  on  one.  She's  a  nice 
girl  enough.  Miss  Delyse,  but  I  don't  care  for 
her.  Yet  somehow  I've  got  mixed  up  with  her 
— not  exactly  engaged,  but  very  near  it.  It  all 
happened  in  a  moment,  and  she's  coming  down 
here;  I  had  a  letter  from  her  this  morning." 

"  Oh,  Lord!  "  said  Mudd,  "  another  mixture. 
As  if  there  wasn't  enough  of  us  in  the  business !  " 
203 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

**  That's  a  good  name  for  it,  *  business.'  I 
feel  as  if  I  was  helping  to  run  a  sort  of  beastly 
factory,  a  mad  sort  of  sliow  where  we're  trying 
to  condense  folly  and  make  it  consume  its  own 
smoke — an  illicit  whisky-still,  for  we're  trying 
to  hide  our  business  all  the  time,  and  it  gives  me 
the  jim-jams  to  think  that  at  any  moment  a  client 
may  turn  up  and  see  him  like  that.  I  feel  some- 
times, Mudd,  as  fellows  must  feel  when  they 
have  the  police  after  them." 

"  Don't  talk  of  the  pohce,"  said  Mudd,  *'  the 
very  word  gives  me  the  shivers.  When  is  she 
coming,  Mr.  Robert?  " 

"  Miss  Delyse?  She's  coming  by  the  3.15 
train  to-day  to  Farnborough  station,  and  I've 
got  to  meet  her.  I've  just  booked  her  a  room 
here.  You  see  how  I  am  tied.  If  I  was  here 
alone  she  couldn't  come,  because  it  wouldn't  be 
proper,  but  having  him  here  makes  it  proper." 

"  Have  you  told  her  the  state  he's  in?  " 

"  Yes.  She  doesn't  mind;  she  said  she  wished 
everyone  else  was  the  same — she  said  it  was 
beautiful." 

They  were  talking  in  Bobby's  room,  which 
overlooked  the  garden  of  the  hotel,  and  glanc- 
ing out  of  the  window  now,  he  saw  Cerise. 

Then  he  detached  himself  from  Mudd.    He 
reached  her  as  she  was  passing  through  the  little 
204 


HORN 

rambler-roofed  alley  that  leads  from  the  garden 
to  the  bowling-green.  There  is  an  arbour  in  the 
garden  tucked  away  In  a  corner,  and  there  is  an 
arbour  close  to  the  bowling-green;  there  are 
several  other  arbours,  for  the  hotel-planner  was 
an  expert  in  his  work,  but  these  are  the  only  two 
arbours  that  have  to  do  with  our  story. 

Bobby  caught  up  with  the  girl  before  she  had 
reached  the  green,  and  they  walked  together 
towards  it,  chatting  as  young  people  only  can 
chat  with  life  and  gaiety  about  nothing.  They 
were  astonishingly  well-matched  in  mind. 
Minds  have  colours  just  like  eyes;  there  are 
black  minds  and  brown  minds  and  muddy-col- 
oured minds  and  grey  minds,  and  blue  minds. 
Bobby's  was  a  blue  mind,  though,  indeed,  it 
sometimes  almost  seemed  green.  Cerise's  was 
blue,  a  happy  blue  like  the  blue  of  her  eyes. 

They  had  been  two  and  a  half  days  now  in 
pretty  close  propinquity,  and  had  got  to  know 
each  other  well  despite  Uncle  Simon,  or  rather, 
perhaps,  because  of  him.  They  discussed  him 
freely  and  without  reserve,  and  they  were  dis- 
cussing him  now,  as  the  following  extraordinary 
conversation  will  show. 

"  He's  good,  as  you  say,'*  said  Bobby,  "  but 
he's  more  trouble  to  me  than  a  child." 

Said  Cerise :  "  Shall  I  tell  you  a  little  secret?  "- 
205 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  Yes." 

"  You  will  promise  me  surely,  most  surely^ 
you  will  never  tell  my  little  secret?  " 

"I  swear." 

"  He  is  in  loff  with  me — ^I  thought  it  was 
maman,  but  it  is  me."  A  ripple  of  laughter  that 
caught  the  echo  of  the  bowling-alley  followed 
this  confession. 

"  Last  night  he  said  to  me  before  dinnep,. 
•  Cerise,  I  loff  you.'  " 

"  And  what  did  you  say?  " 

"  Then  the  dinner-gong  rang,"  said  Cerise, 
•*  and  I  said,  *  Oh,  Monsieur  Pattigrew,  I  must 
run  and  change  my  dress.'  Then  I  ran  off.  I 
did  not  want  to  change  my  dress,  butT  did  want 
to  change  the  conversation,"  finished  Cerise. 

Then  with  a  smile,  "  He  loffs  me  more  than 
any  of  the  other  girls." 

"  Why,  how  do  you  know  he  loves  other 
girls?" 

"  I  have  seen  him  look  at  girls,"  said  Cerise. 
"  He  likes  all  the  world,  but  girls  he  likes  most." 

"  Are  you  in  love  with  him.  Cerise?  "  asked 
Bobby,  with  a  grin. 

"  Yes,"  said  Cerise  candidly.  **  Who  could 
help?" 

"  How  much  are  you  in  love  with  him> 
Cerise?" 

206 


HORN 

"  I  would  walk  to»  London  for  him  without 
my  shoes,"  said  Cerise. 

"Well,  that's  something,''  said  Bobby. 
"  Come  into  this  little  arbour.  Cerise,  and 
let's  sit  down.  You  don't  mind  my  smok- 
ing?'^ 

"  Not  one  bit.'' 

"  It's  good  to  have  anyone  love  one  like 
that,"  said  he,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

**  He  draws  it  from  me,"  said  Cerise. 

"  Well,  I  must  say  he's  more  likeable  as  he  is 
than  as  he  was;  you  should  have  seen  him  be- 
fore he  got  young,  Cerise." 

"  He  was  always  good,"  said  she,  as  though 
speaking  from  sure  knowledge ;  "  always  good 
and  kind  and  sweet." 

"  He  managed  to  hide  it,"  said  Bobby. 

"  Ah  yes — ^maybe  so — there  are  many  old 
gentlemen  who  seem  rough  and  not  nice,  and 
then  underneath  it  is  different." 

"How  would  you  like  to  marry  uncle?" 
asked  he,  laughing. 

"If  he  were  young  outside  as  he  is  young 
inside  of  him — ^why,  then  I  do  not  know.  I 
might — I  might  not." 

Then  the  unfortunate  young  man,  forgetting 
all  things,  even  the  approaching  Julia,  let  his 
yoice  fall  half  a  tone ;  he  wandered  from  Uncle 
207 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

Simon  Into  the  question  of  the  beauty  of  the 
roses. 

The  conversation  flagged  a  bit,  then  he  was 
holding  one  of  her  fingers. 

Then  came  steps  on  the  gravel.    !A  servant. 

"  The  fly  is  ready  to  take  you  to  the  station, 


sir." 


It  was  three  o'clock. 


jzoa 


CHAPTER  III 

JULIA — continued 

IT  was  a  cross  between  a  hansom  cab  and  a 
"  growler,'*  with  the  voice  of  the  latter, 
and  the  dust  of  the  Farnborough  road, 
with  the  prospect  of  a  three-mile  drive  to  meet 
Julia  and  a  three-mile  drive  back  again,  did  not 
fill  Bobby  with  joy — also  the  prospect  of  having 
to  make  explanations. 

He  had  quite  determined  on  that.  After  the 
arbour  business  it  was  impossible  to  go  on  with 
Julia;  he  had  to  break  whatever  bonds  there 
existed  between  them,  and  he  had  to  do  the 
business  before  she  got  to  the  hotel.  Then 
came  the  prospect  of  having*  to  live  with  her  in 
the  hotel,  even  for  a  night.  He  questioned 
himself,  asking  him*self  were  he  a  cad  or  not, 
had  he  trifled  with  Julia?  As  far  as  memory 
went,  they  had  both  trifled  with  one  another.  It 
was  a  sudden  affair,  and  no  actual  promise  had 
been  made;  he  had  not  even  said  "  I  love  you  " 
— ^but  he  had  kissed  her.  The  legal  mind  would, 
no  doubt,  have  construed  that  into  a  declaration 
209 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

of  affection,  but  Bobby's  mind  was  not  legal — 
anything  but — and  as  for  kissing  a  girl,  If  he  had 
been  condemned  to  marry  all  the  girls  he  had 
kissed  he  would  have  been  forced  to  live  in 
Utah. 

He  had  to  wait  half  an  hour  for  the  train  at 
Farnborough,  and  when  it  drew  up  out  stepped 
Julia,  hot,  and  dressed  In  green,  dragging  a 
hold-all  and  a  bundle  of  magazines  and  news- 
papers. 

"  H'are  you?"  said  Bobby,  as  they  shook 
hands. 

"  Hot,"  said  Julia. 

"Isn't  it?" 

He  carried  the  hold-all  to  the  fly  and  a  porter 
followed  with  a  basket-work  portmanteau. 
When  the  luggage  was  stowed  in  they  got  in 
and  the  fly  moved  off. 

Julia  was  not  in  a  passionate  mood;  no  per- 
son is  or  ever  has  been  after  a  journey  on  the 
London  and  Wessex  and  South  Coast  Railway 
— ^unless  it  is  a  mood  of  passion  against  the  rail- 
way. She  seemed,  indeed,  disgruntled  and  criti- 
cal, and  a  tone  of  complaint  in  her  voice  cheered 
up  Bobby. 

"  I  know  it's  an  awful  old  fly,"  said  he,  "  but 
it's  the  best  they  had;  the  hotel  motor-car  is 
broken  down  or  something." 

210 


JULIA — continued 

"  Why  didn't  you  wire  me  that  day/'  said 
she,  "  that  you  were  going  off  so  soon?  I  only 
got  your  wire  from  here  next  morning.  You 
promised  to  meet  me  and  you  never  turned  up. 
I  went  to  the  Albany  to  see  if  you  were  in,  and 
I  saw  Mr.  Tozer.  He  said  you  had  gone  off 
with  half  a  dozen  people  in  a  car " 

"  Only  four,  not  including  me,"  cut  in  Bobby. 

**  Two  ladies '' 

"  An  old  French  lady  and  her  daughter." 

"  Well,  that'*  two  ladies,  isn't  it?  " 

"  I  suppose  so — ^you  can't  make  it  three. 
Then  there  was  uncle;  it's  true  he's  a  host  in 
himself." 

*'  How's  he  going  on?  " 

"  Splendidly." 

"  I'm  very  anxious  to  see  him,"  said  Julia. 
"  It's  so  seldom  one  meets  anyone  really  orig- 
inal in  this  life ;  most  people  are  copies  of  oth- 
ers, and  generally  bad  ones  at  that." 

"  That's  so,"  said  Bobby. 

"  How's  the  novel  going  on?  "  said  Julia. 

*'  Heavens!  "  said  Bobby,  "  do  you  think  I 
can  add  literary  work  to  my  other  distrac- 
tions? The  novel  is  not  going  on,  but  the  plot 
is." 

*'  How  d'you  mean?  " 

*'  Uncle  Simon.     I've  got  the  beginning  and 

211 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

middle  of  a  novel  in  him,  but  I  haven't  got  the 
end;* 

"  You  are  going  to  put  him  in  a  book?  '* 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  I  could,  and  close  the 
covers  on  him.  No,  I'm  going  to  weave  him 
into  a  story — he's  doing  most  of  the  weaving, 
but  that's  a  detail.    Look  here,  Julia ** 

"Yes?" 

*'  I've  been  thinking." 

"Yes?" 

"  I've  been  thinking  we  have  made  a  mis- 
take." 

"Who?" 

"  Well,  we.  I  didn't  write,  I  thought  I'd 
Irait  till  I  saw  you." 

"  How  d'you  mean?  "  said  Julia  dryly. 

"  Us." 

"Yes?" 

"  Well,  you  know  what  I  mean.  It's  just  this 
way,  people  do  foohsh  things  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment." 

"  What  have  we  done  foolish?  " 

"  We  haven't  done  anything  foolish,  only  I 
think  we  were  in  too  great  a  hurry." 

"How?" 

"  Oh,  you  know,  that  evening  at  your  flat." 

"Oh!" 

"Tes." 

212 


JULIA — continued 

**  You  mean  to  say  you  don't  care  for  me  any 
more?  " 

"  Oh,   it's   not   that;   I   care    for  you   very 
much." 

"  Say  It  at  once,"  said  Julia.  "  You  care  for 
me  as  a  sister." 

"  Well,  that's  about  it,"  said  Bobby. 

Julia  was  silent,  and  only  the  voice  of  the  fly 
filled  the  air. 

Then  she  said : 

"  It's  just  as  well  to  know  where  one  is." 

"Are  you  angry?  " 

"  Not  a  bit." 

He  glanced  at  her. 

"  Not  a  bit.  You  have  met  someone  else. 
Why  not  say  so?  " 

"  I  have,"  said  Bobby.  "  You  know  quite 
well,  Julia,  one  can't  help  these  things." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  '  these  things,'- 
as  you  call  them;  I  only  know  that  you  have 
ceased  to  care  for  me — let  that  suffice." 

She  was  very  calm,  and  a  feeling  came  to 
Bobby  that  she  did  not  care  so  very  deeply  for 
him.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  feeling  somehow, 
although  it  gave  him  relief.  He  had  expected 
her  to  weep  or  fly  out  in  a  temper,  but  she  was 
quite  calm  and  ordinary;  he  almost  felt  like 
making  love  to  her  again  to  see  if  she  had  cared 
213 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

for  him,  but  fortunately  this  feeling  passed. 

"  We'll  be  friends/'  said  he. 

**  Absolutely,"  said  Julia.  "  How  could  a 
little  thing  like  that  spoil  friendship  ?  " 

Was  she  jesting  with  him  or  in  earnest?  Bit- 
ter, or  just  herself? 

**  Is  she  staying  at  the  hotel?"  asked  she, 
after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  She  is,"  said  Bobby. 

"It's  the  French  girl?" 

"  How  did  you  guess  that?  " 

"  I  knew.'' 

"When?" 

"  When  you  explained  them  and  began  with 
the  old  lady.  But  the  old  lady  will,  no  doubt, 
have  her  turn  next,  and  to  the  next  girl  you'll 
explain  them,  beginning  with  the  girl." 

Bobby  felt  very  hot  and  uncomfortable. 

"  Now  you're  angry  with  me,"  said  he. 

"  Not  a  bit." 

"  Well,  let's  be  friends." 

"  Absolutely.  I  could  never  fancy  you  as  the 
enemy  of  anyone  but  yourself." 

Bobby  wasn't  enjoying  the  drive,  and  there 
was  a  mile  more  of  it — uphill,  mostly. 

"  I  think  I'll  get  out  and  give  the  poor  old 
horse  a  chance,"  said  he;  "these  hills  are 
beastly  for  it." 

214 


JULIA — continued 

He  got  out  and  walked  by  the  fly,  glancing 
occasionally  at  the  silhouette  of  Julia,  who 
seemed  ruminating  matters. 

He  was  beginning  to  feel,  now,  that  he  had 
done  her  an  injury,  and  she  had  said  nothing 
about  going  back  to-morrow  or  anything  like 
that,  and  he  was  held  as  by  a  vice,  and  Cerise 
and  he  would  be  under  the  microscope,  and 
Cerise  knew  nothing  about  Julia. 

Then  he  got  Into  the  fly  again  and  five  minutes 
later  they  drove  up  to  the  Rose.  Simon  was 
standing  in  the  porch  as  they  drove  up ;  his  straw 
hat  was  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  he  had  a 
cigar  In  his  mouth. 

He  looked  at  Bobby  and  Julia  and  grinned 
slightly.  It  seemed  suddenly  to  have  got  Into 
his  head  that  Bobby  had  been  fetching  a  sweet- 
heart as  well  as  a  young  lady  from  the  station. 
It  had,  In  fact,  and  things  that  got  into  Simon's 
youthful  head  in  this  fashion,  allied  to  things 
pleasant,  were  difficult  to  remove. 


215 


CHAPTER  IV 

HORN — continued 

SIMON  had  been  that  day  all  alone  to  see 
Mrs.  Fisher-Fisher's  roses;  he  said  so 
at  dinner  that  night.  He  had  remem- 
bered the  general  invitation  and  had  taken  it, 
evidently,  as  a  personal  one.  Bobby  did  not 
enquire  details;  besides,  his  mind  was  occupied 
at  that  dinner-table,  where  Cerise  was  con- 
stantly seeking  his  glance  and  where  Julia  sat 
watching.  Brooding  and  watching  and  talking 
chiefly  to  Simon. 

She  and  Simon  seemed  to  get  on  well  together, 
and  a  close  observer  might  have  fancied  that 
Simon  was  attracted,  perhaps  less  by  her  charms 
than  by  the  fact  that  he  considered  her  Bobby's 
girl  and  was  making  to  cut  Bobby  out,  in  a  mild 
way;  by  his  own  superior  attractions. 

After  dinner  Simon  forgot  her.  He  had 
other  business  on  hand.  He  had  not  dressed  for 
dinner,  he  was  simply  and  elegantly  attired  in 
the  blue  serge  suit  he  had  worn  in  London. 
Taking  his  straw  hat  and  lighting  a  cigar,  he  left 
2i6 


HORN — continued 

the  others  and,  having  strolled  round  the  gar- 
den for  a  few  minutes,  left  the  hotel  premises 
and  strolled  down  the  street. 

The  street  was  deserted.  He  reached  the 
Bricklayer's  Arms,  and,  having  admired  the 
view  for  a  while  from  the  porch  of  that  hos- 
telry, strolled  into  the  bar. 

The  love  of  low  company,  which  issometimes 
a  distinguishing  feature  of  the  youthful,  comes 
from  several  causes :  a  taste  for  dubious  sport,  a 
kicking  against  restraint,  simply  the  love  of  low 
company,  or  a  kind  of  megalomania — a  wish  to 
be  first  person  in  the  company  present,  a  wish 
easily  satisfied  at  the  cost  of  a  few  pounds. 

In  Simon's  case  it  was  probably  a  compound 
of  the  lot. 

In  the  bar  of  the  Bricklayer's  Arms  he  was 
first  person  by  a  mile;  and  this  evening,  owing 
to  hay-harvest  work,  he  was  first  by  twenty 
miles,  for  the  only  occupant  of  the  bar  was  Dick 
Horn. 

Horn,  as  before  hinted  by  Mudd,  was  a  very 
dubious  character.  In  old  days  he  would  have 
been  a  poacher  pure  and  simple,  to-day  he  was 
that  and  other  things  as  well.  Socialism  had 
touched  him.  He  desired,  not  only  other  men's 
game  and  fish,  but  their  houses  and  furniture. 

He  was  six  feet  two,  very  thin,  with  lantern 
217 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

jaws,  and  a  dark  look  suggestive  ^of  Romany 
antecedents — a  most  fascinating  individual  to 
the  philosopher,  the  police,  and  those  members 
of  the  public  of  artistic  leanings.  He  was 
seated  smoking  and  in  company  of  a  brown  mug 
of  beer  when  Simon  came  in. 

They  gave  each  other  good  evening,  Simon 
rapped  with  a  half-crown  on  the  counter,  or- 
dered some  beer  for  himself,  had  Horn's  mug 
replenished,  and  then  sat  down.  The  landlord, 
having  served  them,  left  them  together,  and 
they  fell  into  talk  on  the  weather. 

"  Yes,"  said  Horn,  "  it's  fine  enough  for 
them  that  like  it,  weather's  no  account  to  me. 
Fm  used  to  weather." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Simon. 

"  Gentlefolk  don't  know  what  weather  is," 
said  Horn;  "  they  can  take  it  or  leave  it.  It's 
the  pore  that  knows  what  weather  is." 

They  agreed  on  thifS  point. 

After  a  while  Horn  got  up,  craned  his  head 
round  the  bar  partition  to  see  that  no  one  was 
listening,  and  sat  down  again. 

"  You  remember  what  I  said  to  you  about 
them  night  lines  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  Fm  going  to  set  some  to-night  down 
in  the  river  below." 

2t8 


HORN — continued 

**  By  Jove !  "  said  Simon,  vastly  interested. 

"  If  you're  wanting  to  see  a  bit  of  sport 
maybe  you'd  like  to  jine  me?  "  said  Horn. 

For  a  moment  Simon  held  back,  playing  with 
this  idea,  then  he  succumbed. 

"  I'm  with  you,"  said  he. 

"  The  keeper's  away  at  Ditchin'ham  that 
minds  this  bit  of  the  stream,"  said  Horn. 
"  Not  that  it  matters,  for  he  ain't  no  good,  and 
the  constable's  no  more  than  a  blind  horse. 
"  He's  away,  so  we'll  have  the  place  proper  to 
ourselves,  and  you  said  you  was  anxious  to  see 
how  night  linin'  was  done.  Well,  you'll  see  it, 
if  you  come  along  with  me.  Mind  you,  it's  not 
every  gentleman  I'd  take  on  a  job  like  this,  but 
you're  different.  Mind  you,  they'd  call  this 
poachin',  some  of  them  blistered  magistrits,  and 
I'm  takin'  a  risk  lettin'  you  into  it." 

"  I'll  say  nothing,"  said  Simon. 

"  It's  a  risk  all  the  same,"  said  Horn. 

"  I'll  pay  you,"  said  Simon. 

"'Aff  a  quid?" 

"  Yes,  here  it  is.    What  time  do  you  start?  " 

"  Not  for  two  hours,"  said  Horn.  "  My  bit 
of  a  place  is  below  hill  there.  Y'know  the 
Ditchin'ham  road?  " 

"  Yes." 

**  Well,  it's  that  shack  down  there  on  the  right 
219 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

of  the  road  before  it  jines  the  village.  IVe  got 
the  lines  there  and  all.  You  walk  down  there 
in  two  hours'  time  and  you'll  find  me  at  the 
gate." 

"  ril  come,"  said  Simon. 

Then  these  two  worthies  parted;  Horn  wip- 
ing his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  saying 
he  had  to  see  a  man  about  some  ferrets,  Simon 
walking  back  to  the  hotel. 


220 


CHAPTER  V 


TIDD  versus  RENSHAW 


T'HE  head  of  a  big  office  or  busi- 
ness house  cannot  move  out  of  hia 
orbit  without  creating  perturbations. 
Brownlow,  the  head  clerk  and  second  in  com- 
mand of  the  Pettigrew  business,  was  to  learn 
this  fact  to  his  cost. 

Brownlow  was  a  man  of  forty-five,  whose 
habits  and  ideas  seemed  regulated  by  clockwork. 
He  lived  at  Hampstead  with  his  wife  and  three 
children,  and  went  each  day  to  the  office.  That 
was  the  summary  of  his  life  as  read  by  an 
outsider.  Often  the  bald  statement  covers 
everything.  It  almost  did  in  the  case  of  Brown- 
low. He  had  no  initiative.  He  kept  things  to- 
gether, he  was  absolutely  perfect  in  routine,  he 
had  a  profound  knowledge  of  the  law,  he  was 
correct,  a  good  husband  and  a  good  father,  but 
he  had  no  initiative,  and,  outside  of  the  law, 
very  little  knowledge  of  the  world. 

Imagine  this  correct  gentleman,  then,  seated 
at  his  desk  on  the  morning  of  the  day  after  that 
on  which  Simon  made  his  poaching  arrange- 

221 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

ments  with  Horn.  He  was  turning  over  some 
papers  when  Balls,  the  second  In  command,  came 
in.  Balls  was  young  and  wore  eyeglasses  and 
had  ambitions.  He  and  Brownlow  were  old 
friends,  and  when  together  talked  as  equals. 

"  IVe  had  that  James  man  just  in  to  see  me," 
said  Balls.  "Same  old  game;  wanted  to  see 
Pettigrew.  He  knows  I  have  the  whole  thread 
of  the  case  in  my  hands,  but  that's  nothing  to 
him,  he  wants  to  see  Pettigrew.** 

*'  I  know,'*  said  Brownlow.  "  I*ve  had  the 
same  bother.    They  will  see  the  head.** 

"  When's  he  back?  *'  asked  Balls. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Brownlow. 

"Where's  he  gone?** 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Brownlow.  **  I  only 
know  he's  gone, -same  as  this  time  last  year.  He 
was  a  month  away  then.** 

"  Oh,  Lord !  "  said  Balls,  who  had  only 
joined  the  office  nine  months  before  and  who 
knew  nothing  of  last  year's  escapade.  "  A 
month  more  of  this  sort  of  bother — a  month!  " 

*^  Yes,"  said  Brownlow.  "  I  had  it  to  do  last 
year,  and  he  left  no  address,  same  as  now." 
Then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  Fm  worried 
about  him.  I  can't  help  it,  there  was  a  strange 
thing  happened  last  year.  I've  never  told  it  to 
a  soul  before.    He  called  me  in  one  day  to  his 

222 


I  TIDD  VERSUS  RENSHAW 

room  and  he  showed  me  a  bundle  of  bank-notes. 
*  See  here,  Brownlow,'  said  he,  *  did  you  put 
these  in  my  safe?  '  I'd  never  seen  the  things 
before  and  I  have  no  key  to  his  private  safe.  I 
told  him  I  hadn't.  He  showed  me  the  notes, 
ttn  thousand  pounds'  worth.  Ten  thousand 
pounds'  worth,  he  couldn't  account  for — asked 
me  if  I'd  put  them  in  his  safe.  I  said  '  No,'  as 
I  told  you.  *  Well,  it's  very  strange,'  said  he. 
Then  he  stood  looking  at  the  floor.  Then  he 
said  all  of  a  sudden,  *  It  doesn't  matter.'  Next 
day  he  went  off  on  a  month's  holiday,  sending 

^  word  for  me  to  carry  on." 

I      "Queer,"  said  Balls. 

I  "  More  than  queer,"  replied  Brownlow. 
"  I've  put  it  down  to  mental  strain;  he's  a  hard 
worker.'* 

"  It's  not  mental  strain,"  said  Balls.  "  He's 
as  alive  as  you  or  me  and  as  keen,  and  he  doesn't 
overwork;  it's  something  else." 

"  Well,  I  wish  it  would  stop,"  said  Brown- 
low, "  for  I'm  nearly  worried  to  death  with 
clients  writing  to  see  him  and  trying  to  invent 
excuses,  and  my  work  is  doubled." 

"  So's  mine,"  said  Balls.  He  went  out  and 
Brownlow  continued  his  business.  He  had  not 
been  engaged  on  it  for  long  when  Morgan,  the 
office-boy,  appeared. 

223 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

"  Mr.  Tidd,  sir,  to  see  Mr.  Pettlgrew." 

**  Show  him  in,"  said  Brownlow. 

A  moment  later  Mr.  Tidd  appeared. 

Mr.  Tidd  was  a  small,  slight,  old-maidish 
man ;  he  walked  lightly,  like  a  bird,  and  carried 
a  tall  hat  with  a  black  band  in  one  hand  and  a 
tightly-folded  umbrella  in  the  other.  Incident- 
ally he  was  one  of  Pettigrew's  best  clients. 

*'  Good  morning,"  said  Mr.  Tidd.  "  Fve 
called  to  see  Mr.  Pettigrew  with  regard  to  those 
papers." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Brownlow.  "  Sit  down,  Mr. 
Tidd.  Those  papers — Mr.  Pettigrew  has  been 
considering  them." 

"  Is  not  Mr.  Pettigrew  in?  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Tidd,  he's  not  in  just  at  present." 

"  When  is  he  likely  to  return?  " 

"Well,  that's  doubtful;  he  has  left  me  in 
charge." 

The  end  of  Mr.  Tidd's  nose  moved  uneasily. 

"  You  are  in  charge  of  my  case?  " 

"  Yes,  of  the  whole  business." 

"  I  can  speak  confidentially?  " 

"Absolutely." 

"  Well,  I  have  decided  to  stop  proceedings — 
in  fact,  I  am  caught  in  a  hole." 

"Oh!" 

"Yes.  Mrs.  Renshaw  has,  in  some  illicit 
224 


TIDD  VERSUS  RENSHAW 

manner,  got  a  document  with  my  signature  at- 
tached— a  very  grave  document.  This  is  strictly 
between  ourselves." 

"  Strictly." 

"  And  she  threatens  to  use  it  against  me." 

"  Yes." 

"  To  use  it  against  me,  unless  I  return  to  her 
at  once  the  letter  of  hers  which  I  put  in  Mn 
Pettigrew's  keeping." 

"Oh  I" 

"  Yes.  She  is  a  violent  and  very  vicious 
woman.  I  have  not  slept  all  night.  I  live,  as 
you  perhaps  know,  at  Hitchin.  I  took  the  first 
train  I  could  conveniently  catch  to  town  this 
morning." 

The  horrible  fact  was  beginning  to  dawn  on 
Brownlow  that  Simon  had  not  brought  those 
papers  back  to  the  office.  He  said  nothing; 
his  lips,  for  a  moment,  had  gone  dry. 

"  How  she  got  hold  of  that  document  with 
my  name  to  it  I  cannot  tell,"  said  Mr.  Tidd, 
"  but  she  will  use  it  against  me  most  certainly 
unless  I  return  that  letter." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Brownlow,  recovering  him- 
self, "  perhaps  she  is  only  threatening — bluffing^ 
as  they  call  it." 

**  Oh  no,  she's  not,"  said  the  other.  "  If  you 
knew  her  you  would  not  say  that;  no,  indeed^ 
225 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

you  would  not  say  that.  She  is  the  last  woman 
to  threaten  what  she  will  not  perform.  Till  that 
document  is  in  her  hands  I  will  not  feel  safe.'* 

"  You  must  be  careful,"  said  Brownlow, 
fighting  for  time.  "  How  would  it  be  if  I  were 
to  see  her?  " 

''  Useless,"  said  Mr.  Tidd. 

"May  I  ask " 

"Yes?" 

"  Is  the  document  to  which  your  name  is  at- 
tached, and  which  is  in  her  possession,  is  it — er 
— detrimental — I  mean,  plainly,  is  it  likely  to 
do  you  a  grave  injury?  " 

*'The  document,"  said  Mr.  Tidd,  "was 
written  by  me  in  a  moment  of  impulse  to  a 
lady  who  is — another  gentleman's  wife." 

"It  is  a  letter?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  letter." 

"  I  see.  Well,  Mr.  Tidd,  your  document,  the 
one  you  are  anxious  to  return  in  exchange  for 
this  document,  is  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Pet- 
tigrew;  it  is  quite  safe." 

"  Doubtless,"  said  Mr.  Tidd,  "  but  I  want  it 
in  my  hands  to  return  it  myself  to-day." 

"  I  sent  it  with  the  other  papers  to  Mr. 
Pettigrew's  private  house,"  said  Brownlow, 
"  and  he  has  not  yet  returned  it." 

"  Oh !    But  I  want  it  to-day." 
226 


TIDD  VERSUS  RENSHAW 

"  It's  very  unfortunate/'  said  Brownlow, 
"  but  he's  away — and  I'm  afraid  he  must  have 
taken  the  papers  with  him  for  consideration." 

"  Good  heavens !  "  said  Tidd.  "  But  if  that 
is  so  what  am  I  to  do?  " 

"You  can't  wait?" 

"  How  can  I  wait?  " 

"  Dear  me,  dear  me,"  said  Brownlow,  almost 
driven  to  distraction,  "  this  is  very  unfortunate." 

Tidd  seemed  to  concur. 

His  lips  had  become  pale.  Then  he  broke 
out:  "  I  placed  my  vital  interests  in  the  hands 
of  Mr.  Pettigrew,  and  now  at  the  critical  mo- 
ment I  find  this!  "  said  he.  "  Away!  But  you 
must  find  him — ^you  must  find  him,  and  find  him 
at  once." 

If  he  had  only  known  what  he  would  find  he 
might  have  been  less  eager  perhaps. 

"  I'll  find  him  if  I  can,"  said  Brownlow.  He 
rang  a  bell,  and  when  Morgan  appeared  he  sent 
for  Balls. 

**  Mr.  Balls,"  said  Brownlow  with  a  spas- 
modic attempt  at  a  wink,  "  can  you  not  get  Mr. 
Pettigrew's  present  address  ?  " 

Balls  understood. 

"  I'll  see,"  said  he.  Out  he  went,  returning 
in  a  minute. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  can't,"  said  Balls.  "  Mr.  Pet- 
227 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

tigrew  did  not  leave  his  address  when  he  went 
away." 

*'  Thank  you,  Mr.  Balls,"  said  Brownlow. 
Then  to  Tidd,  when  they  were  alone :  "  This 
is  as  hard  for  me  as  for  you,  Mr.  Tidd;  I  can't 
think  what  to  do." 

"  We've  got  to  find  him,"  said  Tidd. 

"  Certainly." 

"  Will  he  by  any  chance  have  left  his  address 
at  his  private  house?  " 

"  We  can  see,"  said  Brownlow.  "  He  has  no 
telephone,  but  I'll  go  myself." 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Tidd.  "  You 
understand  me,  this  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death 
— ruin — ^my  wife — that  woman,  and  the  other 
one." 

"  I  see,  I  see,  I  see,"  said  Brownlow,  taking 
his  hat  from  its  peg  on  the  wall.  "  Come  with 
me;  we  will  find  him  if  he  is  to  be  found." 

He  hurried  out,  followed  by  Mr.  Tidd,  and  in 
Fleet  Street  he  managed  to  get  a  taxi.  They 
got  into  it  and  drove  to  King  Charles  Street. 

There  was  a  long  pause  after  the  knock,  and 
then  the  door  opened,  disclosing  Mrs.  Jukes. 
Brownlow  was  known  to  her. 

"  Mrs.  Jukes,"  said  Brownlow,  "  can  you 
give  me  Mr.  Pettigrew's  present  address?'* 

"  No,  sir,  I  can't." 

228 


TIDD  VERSUS  RENSHAW 

"He  was  called  away,  was  he  not?" 

"  I  don't  think  so,  sir;  he  went  off  on  some 
business  or  other.     Mudd  has  gone  with  him." 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Tidd. 

"  They  stopped  at  the  Charing  Cross  Hotel," 
said  Mrs.  Jukes,  "  and  then  I  had  a  message 
they  were  going  into  the  country.  It  was  from 
Mr.  Mudd,  and  he  said  they  might  be  a  month 
away." 

"A  month  away  I"  said  Tidd,  his  voice 
strangely  calm. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Good  gracious !  "  said  Brownlow.  Then  to 
Tidd,  "  You  see  how  I  am  placed?  " 

"  A  month  away,"  said  Tidd;  he  seemed  un- 
able to  get  over  that  obstacle  of  thought. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Jukes. 

They  got  into  the  taxi  and  went  to  the  Char- 
ing Cross  Hotel,  where  they  were  informed  that 
Mr.  Pettigrew  was  gone  and  had  left  no  ad- 
dress. 

Then  suddenly  an  idea  came  to  Brownlow — 
Oppenshaw.  The  doctor  might  know;  failing 
the  doctor,  they  were  done. 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  he;  "  I  think  I  know 

a  person  who  may  have  the  address."     He  got 

into  the  taxi  again  with  the  other,  gave  the 

Harley  Street  address,  and  they  drove  off.    The 

229 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

horrible  irregularity  of  the  whole  of  this  busi- 
ness was  poisoning  Brownlow's  mind — hunting 
for  the  head  of  a  firm  who  ought  to  be  at  his 
office  and  who  held  possession  of  a  client's 
vitally  .important  document. 

He  said  nothing,  neither  did  Mr.  Tidd,  who 
was  probably  engaged  in  reviewing  the  facts  of 
his  case  and  the  position  his  wife  would  take  up 
when  that  letter  was  put  into  her  hands  by  Mrs. 
Renshaw. 

They  stopped  at  IIOA,  Harley  Street. 

"  Why,  it's  a  doctor's  house,"  said  Tidd. 

"  Yes,"  said  Brownlow. 

They  knocked  at  the  door  and  were  let  in. 

The  servant,  in  the  absence  of  an  appoint- 
ment, said  he  would  see  what  he  could  do,  and 
showed  them  into  the  waiting-room. 

"  Tell  Dr.  Oppenshaw  it  is  Mr.  Brownlow 
from  Mr.  Pettigrew's  office,'*  said  Brownlow, 
*'  on  very  urgent  business." 

They  took  their  seats,  and  while  Mr.  Tidd 
tried  to  read  a  volume  of  Punch  upside  down, 
Brownlow  bit  his  nails. 

In  a  marvellously  short  time  the  servant  re- 
turned and  asked  Mr.  Brownlow  to  step  in. 

Oppenshaw   did  not   beat   about   the   bush. 
When  he  heard  what  Brownlow  wanted  he  said 
frankly  he  did  not  know  where  Mr.  Pettigrew 
230 


TIDD  VERSUS  RENSHAW 

was ;  he  only  knew  that  he  had  been  staying  at 
the  Charing  Cross  Hotel.  Mudd,  the  man- 
servant, was  with  him. 

"  It's  only  right  that  you  should  know  the  po- 
sition," said  Oppenshaw,  "  as  you  say  you  are 
the  chief  clerk  and  all  responsibility  rests  on  you 
in  Mr.  Pettigrew's  absence."  Then  he  explained. 

"  But  if  he's  like  that,  where's  the  use  of 
finding  him?"  said  the  horrified  Brownlow. 
"  A  man  with  mind  disease !  " 

"  More  a  malady  than  a  disease,"  put  in 
Oppenshaw. 

"  Yes,  but— like  that." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Oppenshaw,  "  he  may  at 
any  moment  turn  back  into  himself  again,  like 
the  finger  of  a  glove  turning  inside  out." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  other  hopelessly,  "  but 
till  he  does  turn " 

At  that  moment  the  sound  of  a  telephone-bell 
came  from  outside. 

"  Till  he  does  turn,  of  course,  he's  useless  for 
business  purposes,"  said  Oppenshaw;  "  he 
would  have  no  memory,  for  one  thing — at  least, 
no  memory  of  business." 

The  servant  entered. 

"  Please,  sir,  an  urgent  call  for  you." 

"  One  moment,"  said  Oppenshaw.  Out  he 
went. 

231 


THE  MAN  WHO  POUND  HIMSELF 

He  was  back  in  less  than  two  minutes. 

**  I  have  his  address,"  said  he. 

"Thank  goodness!  "  said  Brownlow. 

"  H'm,"  said  Oppenshaw;  *' but  there's  not 
good  news  with  it.  He's  staying  at  the  Rose 
Hotel,  Upton-on-Hill,  and  he's  been  getting 
into  trouble  of  some  sort.  It  was  Mudd  who 
'phoned,  and  he  seemed  half  off  his  head;  said 
he  didn't  like  to  go  into  details  over  the  tele- 
phone, but  wanted  me  to  come  down  to  ar- 
range matters.  I  told  him  it  was  quite  impossi- 
ble to-day;  then  he  seemed  to  collapse  and  cut 
me  off." 

"What  am  I  to  do?" 

"Well,  there's  only  two  things  to  be  done: 
tell  this  gentleman  that  Mr.  Pettigrew's  mind  is 
affected,  or  take  him  down  there  on  the  chance 
that  this  shock  may  have  restored  Mr.  Petti- 
grew." 

"  I  can't  tell  him  Mr.  Pettigrew's  mind  is 
affected,"  said  Brownlow.  "  I'd  sooner  do 
anything  than  that.  I'd  sooner  take  him  down 
there  on  the  chance  of  his  being  better — ^per- 
haps even  if  he's  not,  the  sight  of  me  and  Mr. 
Tidd  might  recall  him  to  himself." 

"  Possibly,"  said  Oppenshaw,  who  was  in  a 
hurry  and  only  too  glad  of  any  chance  of  cutting 
the  business  short.  "  Possibly.  Anyhow,  there 
232 


TIDD  VERSUS  RENSHAW 

is  some  use  in  trying,  and  tell  Mudd  it's  abso- 
lutely useless  my  going.  I  shall  be  glad  to  do 
anything  I  can  by  letter  or  telephone." 

Brownlow  took  up  his  hat,  then  he  recaptured 
Tidd  and  gave  him  the  cheering  news  that  he 
had  Simon's  address.  "  I'll  go  with  you  my- 
self," said  Brownlow.  "  Of  course,  the  expense 
will  fall  on  the  office.  I  must  send  a  telegram 
to  the  office  and  my  wife  to  say  I  won't  be  back 
to-night.  We  can't  get  to  Upton  till  this  even- 
ing. We'll  have  to  go  as  we  are,  without  even 
waiting  to  pack  a  bag." 

"  That  doesn't  matter;  that  doesn't  matter," 
said  Tidd. 

They  were  in  the  street  now  and  bundling 
into  the  waiting  taxi. 

"  Victoria  Station,"  said  Brownlow  to  the 
driver.  Then  to  Tidd,  "  I  can  telegraph  from 
the  station." 

They  drove  off. 


233 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  SIMON 

( i  TT    "W"  E  came  back  two  hours  ago,  sir, 

I 1     and  he  was  in  his  room  ten  min- 

^    JL    utes  ago — but  he*s  gone.'' 

"  Well,"  said  Bobby,  who  was  just  off  to  bed, 
"  he'll  be  back  again  soon;  can't  come  to  much 
harm  here.  You'd  better  sit  up  for  him,  Mudd." 

Off  he  went  to  bed.  He  lay  reading  for 
awhile  and  thinking  of  Cerise;  then  he  put  out 
the  light  and  dropped  off  to  sleep. 

He  was  awakened  by  Mudd.  Mudd  with  a 
candle  in  his  hand. 

"  He's  not  back  yet,  Mr.  Robert." 

Bobby  sat  up  and  rubbed  his  eyes.  "  Not 
back?    Oh,  Uncle  Simon!    What's  the  time?  " 

"  Gone  one,  sir." 

"  Bother !  What  can  have  happened  to  him, 
Mudd?" 

"  That's  what  I'm  asking  myself,"  said 
Mudd. 

A  heavy  step  sounded  on  the  gravel  drive 
in  front  of  the  hotel,  then  came  a  ring  at  the 
234 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  SIMON 

bell.      Mudd,    candle     in    hand,    darted    off. 

Bobby  heard  voices  down  below.  Five 
minutes  passed  and  then  reappeared  Mudd — 
ghastly  to  look  at. 

"  They've  took  him,"  said  Mudd. 

"  What?  " 

*'  He's  been  took  poachin'." 

"Poaching!" 

"  Colonel  Salmon's  river,  he  and  a  man,  and 
the  man's  got  off.  He's  at  the  policeman's 
house,  and  he  says  he'll  let  us  have  him  if  we'll 
go  bail  for  him,  seeing  he's  an  old  gentleman 
and  only  did  it  for  the  lark  of  the  thing." 

"Thank  God!" 

"  But  he'll  have  to  go  before  the  magistrates 
on  We'n'sday,  whether  or  no — ^before  the  mag- 
istrates— him!  ^* 

"  The  devil!  "  said  Bobby.  He  got  up  and 
hurried  on  some  clothes. 

"  Him  before  the  magistrates — ^in  his  present 
state!    O^,  Lord!" 

"  Shut  up !  "  said  Bobby.  His  hands  were 
shaking  as  he  put  on  his  things.  Pictures  of 
Simon  before  the  magistrates  were  fleeting  be- 
fore him.  Money  was  the  only  chance.  Could 
the  policeman  be  bribed? 

Hurrying  downstairs  and  outside  into  the 
moonlit  night,  he  found  the  officer.  None  of 
235 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

the  hotel  folk  had  turned  out  at  the  ring  of  the 
bell.  Bobby,  in  a  muted  voice  and  beneath  the 
stars,  listened  to  the  tale  of  the  Law,  then  he 
tried  corruption. 

Useless.  Constable  Copper,  though  he  might 
be  no  more  good  than  a  blind  horse,  according 
to  Horn,  was  incorruptible  yet  consolatory. 

**  It'll  only  be  a  couple  of  quid  fine,"  said  he. 
"  Maybe  not  that,  seeing  what  he  is  and  it  was 
done  for  a  lark.  Horn  will  get  it  in  the  neck, 
but  not  him.  He's  at  my  house  now,  and  you 
can  have  him  back  if  you'll  go  bail  he  won't  get 
loose  again.  He's  a  nice  old  gentleman,  but  a 
bit  peculiar,  I  think." 

Constable  Copper  seemed  quite  light-hearted 
over  the  matter,  and  to  think  little  of  it  as  an 
offence.  A  couple  of  quid  would. cover  it!  He 
did  not,  perhaps,  appreciate  fully  the  light  and 
shade  of  the  situation — a  J.P.  and  member  of 
the  Athenaeum  and  of  the  Society  of  Antiquaries 
brought  up  for  poaching  in  company  with  an 
evil  character  named  Horn ! 

Neither  did  Simon,  whom  they  found  seated 
on  the  side  of  the  table  in  the  Coppers'  sitting- 
room  talking  to  Mrs.  Copper,  who  was  wrapped 
in  a  shawl. 

He  went  back  to  the  hotel  with  them  rather 
silent  but  not  depressed;  he  tried,  indeed,  to 
236 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  SIMON 

talk  and  laugh  over  the  affair.  This  was  the 
last  straw,  and  Bobby  burst  out,  giving  him  a 
"  jawing "  complete  and  of  the  first  pattern. 
Then  theysaw  him  to  bed  and  put  out  the  light. 

At  breakfast  he  was  quite  himself  again,  and 
the  summons  which  arrived  at  eleven  o'clock 
was  not  shown  to  'him.  No  one  knew  of  the 
affair  with  the  exception  of  the  whole  village, 
all  the  hotel  servants,  Bobby  and  Mudd. 

The  distracted  Mudd  spent  the  morning 
walking  about,  hither  and  thither,  trying  to 
collect  his  wits  and  make  a  plan.  Simon  had 
given  his  name,  of  course,  though  indeed  it  did 

not  matter  much  as  he  was  a  resident  at  the 

/ 

hotel.  It  was  impossible  to  deport  him  or  move 
him  or  pretend  he  was  ill;  nothing  was  possible 
but  the  bench  of  magistrates — Colonel  Salmon 
presiding — and  Publicity. 

At  half-past  eleven  or  quarter  to  twelve  he 
sent  the  despairing  message  to  Oppenshaw; 
then  he  collapsed  into  a  cold  sort  of  resignation 
with  hot  fits  at  times. 


^37 


CHAPTER  VII 


TIDD  versus  BROWNLOW 


Apr  four  o'clock  that  day  a  carriage 
drove  up  to  the  hotel  and  two  gentle- 
men alighted.  They  were  shown  into 
the  coffee-room  and  Mudd  was  sent  for.  He 
came,  expecting  to  find  police  officers,  and  found 
Brownlow  and  Mr.  Tidd. 

"  One  moment,  Mr.  Tidd,"  said  Brownlow, 
then  he  took  Mudd  outside  into  the  hall. 

"  He's  not  fit  to  be  seen,"  said  Mudd,  when 
the  other  had  explained.  "  No  client  must  see 
him.  He's  right  enough  to  look  at  and  speak 
to,  but  he's  not  himself.  What  made  you  bring 
him  here,  Mr.  Brownlow — now,  of  all  times?  " 
Brownlow  started  and  turned.  Mr.  Tidd  had 
opened  the  coffee-room  door,  and  how  much 
of  their  conversation  he  had  heard  Heaven 
knows. 

"  One  moment,"  said  Brownlow. 

"  I   will  wait  no  longer,"   said   Mr.   Tidd. 
"  This  must  be  explained.     Is  Mr.  Pettigrew 
here  or  is  he  not?    No,  I  will  not  wait." 
.238 


TIDD  VERSUS  BROWNLOW 

p        A  waiter  passed  at  that  moment  with  an 

afternoon-tea-tray. 

"Is   Mr.   Pettlgrew  in  this  hotel?"   asked 

Tidd. 

"  He's  in  the  garden,  I  believe,  sir." 
Brownlow  tried  to  get  in  front  of  Tidd  to 

round  him  off  from  the  garden;  Mudd  tried  to 

take  his  arm.    He  pushed  them  aside. 


239: 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  THE  ARBOUR 

WE  must  go  back  to  three  o^clock. 
At  three  o'clock  Bobby,  walking  in 
the  garden  smoking  a  cigarette, 
had  crossed  the  front  of  the  arbour — ^Arbour 
No.  I.  The  grass  path,  soundless  as  a  Turkey 
carpet,  did  not  betray  his  footsteps. 

There  were  two  people  in  the  arbour  and  they 
were  "  canoodling  " — Simon  and  Julia  Delyse. 
She  was  keeping  her  hand  in,  perhaps,  or  the 
attraction  Simon  had  always  had  for  her  had  be- 
trayed her  into  allowing  him  to  hold  her  hand. 
Anyhow,  he  was  holding  it.  Bobby  looked  at 
her,  and  Julia  snatched  her  hand  away.  Simon 
laughed;  he  seemed  to  think  it  a  good  joke,  and 
his  vain  soul  was  doubtless  pleased  with  having 
got  the  better  of  Bobby  with  Bobby's  girl. 

Bobby  passed  on,  saying,  "  I  beg  your 
pardon."  It  was  the  only  thing  he  could  think 
of  to  say.  Then,  when  out  of  hearing,  he  too 
laughed.  He  had  got  the  better  of  Julia.  That 
brooding  presence  would  brood  no  more. 

MO 


IN  THE  ARBOUR 

An  hour  later  Simon,  walking  in  the  garden 
alone  and  in  meditation,  reached  the  bowling- 
green.  He  drew  close  to  Arbour  No.  2.  The 
grass  silencing  his  footsteps,  he  passed  the  ar- 
bour opening  and  looked  in.  The  two  people 
there  did  not  see  him  for  a  moment,  then  they 
unlocked. 

It  was  Cerise  and  Bobby. 

Simon  stood,  mouth  open,  stock  still,  cigar 
dropped  on  grass. 

He  had  laughed  when  Bobby  had  caught 
him  with  Julia.     He  did  not  laugh  now. 

The  shock  of  the  poaching  business  had  left 
him  untouched,  unshaken,  but  Cerise,  In  some 
strange  way,  was  his  centre  of  gravity,  his  com- 
pass, and  sometimes  his  rudder.  He  loved 
Cerise ;  the  other  girls  were  phantoms.  Perhaps 
Cerise  was  the  only  real  thing  in  his  mental  state. 

For  a  moment  he  stood,  his  hand  to  his  head 
like  a  man  stunned. 

Bobby  ran  to  him  and  caught  him. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  said  Uncle  Simon.  "  Oh— 
oh — I  see."  He  leaned  heavily  on  Bobby, 
looking  about  him  In  a  dazed  way  like  a  man 
half  awakened.  Madame  Rosslgnol,  who  had 
just  come  out  of  the  hotel,  seeing  his  condition, 
ran  towards  him,  and  Simon,  as  though  recog- 
nising a  guardian  angel,  held  out  his  hand. 
241 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

Then  Bobby  and  the  old  lady  gently,  very 
gently,  began  to  lead  him  back  to  the  house. 

As  they  drew  near  the  back  entrance  three 
men,  one  following  the  other,  came  out. 

Simon  stopped. 

He  had  recognised  Tidd;  he  seemed  also  to 
recognise  more  fully  his  own  position  and  to 
remember.  Bobby  felt  his  hand  tightly  clasping 
his  own. 

"  Why,  this  is  Mr.  Tidd,"  said  Simon. 

"  Mr.  Pettigrew,"  said  Tidd,  "  where  are  my 
papers — the  papers  in  the  case  of  Renshaw?" 

"  Tidd  V.  Renshaw,"  said  Simon's  accurate 
mind.  "  They  are  in  the  top  left-hand  drawer 
of  my  bureau  in  Charles  Street,  Westminster.'* 


i^i 


CHAPTER  IX 

CHAPTER  THE  LAST 

£("V  T^OU  are  all  absolutely  wrong." 
^/  Julia  Delyse  was  speaking.  She 
,M^  had  been  sitting  mumchance  at  a 
general  meeting  of  the  Pettigrew  confraternity 
held  half  an  hour  before  Bench  in  a  sitting- 
room  of  the  Rose  Hotel. 

Simon  had  vetoed  the  idea  of  a  solicitor  to 
defend  him — it  would  only  create  more  talk, 
and  from  what  he  could  make  out  his  case  was 
defenceless.  He  would  throw  himself  on  the 
mercy  of  the  court.    The  rest  had  concurred. 

"  Throw  yourself  on  the  mercy  of  the  court ! 
Have  you  ever  lived  in  the  country?  Do  you 
know  what  these  old  magistrates  are  like? 
Don't  you  know  that  the  JVessex  Chronicle  will 
publish  yards  about  it,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
local  rag?  I've  thought  out  the  whole  thing. 
I've  wired  for  Dick  Pugeot.'* 

"You  wired?"  said  Bobby. 

"  Last  night.     You  remember  I  asked  you 
for  his  address — and  there  he  is." 
243 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

The  toot  of  a  motor-horn  came  from  outside. 

Julia  rose  and  left  the  room. 

Bobby  followed  and  stopped  her  in  the  pas- 
sage. 

"  Julia,"  said  he,  "  if  you  can  get  him  out  of 
this  and  save  his  name  being  in  the  papers, 
you'll  be  a  brick.  You  are  a  brick,  and  I've 
been  a — a " 

"  I  know,"  said  Julia,  "  but  you  could  not 
help  yourself — nor  can  I.  Fm  not  Cerise.  Love 
is  lunacy  and  the  world's  all  wrong.  Now  go 
back  and  tell  your  uncle  to  say  nothing  in  court 
and  to  pretend  he's  a  fool.  If  Pugeot  is  the  man 
you  say  he  is,  he'll  save  his  name.  Old  Mr. 
Pettigrew  has  got  to  be  camouflaged." 

"  Good  heavens,  Julia,"  cried  Bobby,  the 
vision  of  guns  emulating  zebras  rising  before 
him,  "  you  can't  mean  to  paint  him?  " 

"  Never  mind  what  I  mean,"  said  Julia. 

The  Upton  Bench  was  an  old  Bench.  It  had 
been  In  existence  since  the  time  of  Mr.  Justice 
Shallow.  It  held  its  sittings  in  the  court-room 
of  the  Upton  Police  Court,  and  there  it  dis- 
pensed justice,  of  a  sort,  of  a  Wednesday  morn- 
ing upon  *'  drunks,"  petty  pilferers,  poachers, 
tramps,  and  any  other  unfortunates  appearing 
before  it. 

244 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST 

Colonel  Grouse  was  the  chairman.  With  him 
this  morning  sat  Major  Partridge-Cooper, 
Colonel  Salmon,  Mr.  Teal,  and  General  Gram- 
pound.  The  reporters  of  the  local  rag  and  the 
Wessex  Chronicle  were  in  their  places.  The 
Clerk  of  the  Court,  old  Mr.  Quail,  half-blind 
and  fumbling  with  his  papers,  was  at  his  table ;  a 
few  village  constables,  including  Constable  Cop- 
per, were  by  the  door,  and  there  was  no  gen- 
eral public. 

The  general  public  was  free  to  enter,  but  none 
of  the  villagers  ever  came.  It  was  an  under- 
stood thing  that  the  Bench  discouraged  idlers 
and  inquisitive  people. 

The  inalienable  right  of  the  public  to  enter  a 
Court  of  Justice  and  see  Themis  at  work  had 
never  been  pushed.  The  Bench  was  much  more 
than  the  Bench — it  was  the  Gentry  and  the 
Power  of  Upton,*  against  which  no  man  could 
run  counter.  Horn  alone,  in  pot-houses  and 
public  places,  had  fought  against  this  shib- 
boleth; he  had  found  a  few  agreers,  but  no 
backers. 

At  eleven  to  the  moment  the  Pettigrew  con- 
tingent filed  in  and  took  their  places,  and  after 
them  a  big  yellow  man,  the  Hon.  Dick  Pugeot. 
He  was  known  to  the  magistrates,  but  Justice  is 
♦  This  was  before  the  Politicians  had  amended  the  Bench. 

245 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

blind  and  no  mark  of  recognition  was  shown, 
whilst  a  constable,  detaching  himself  from  the 
others,     went     to     the     door     and     shouted: 

"  Richard  Horn." 

Horn,  who  had  been  caught  and  bailed,  and 
who  had  evidently  washed  himself  and  put  on 
his  best  clothes,  entered,  made  for  the  dock,  as 
a  matter  of  long  practice,  and  got  into  it. 

"  Simon  Pettigrew,"  called  the  Clerk. 

Simon  rose  and  followed  Horn.  Instructed 
by  Julia  to  say  nothing,  he  said  nothing. 

Then  Pugeot  rose. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Pugeot;  "you 
have  got  my  friend's  name  wrong.  Pattigraw, 
please ;  he's  a  Frenchman,  though  long  resident 
in  England;  and  it's  not  Simon — ^but  Sigis- 
mond." 

"  Rectify  the  charge-sheet,"  said  Colonel 
Grouse.    "  First  witness." 

Simon,  dazed,  and  horrified  as  a  solicitor  by 
this  line  of  action,  tried  to  speak,  but  failed. 
The  brilliant  idea  of  Julia's,  taken  up  with  en- 
thusiasm by  Pugeot,  was  evidently  designed  to 
fool  the  newspaper  men  and  save  the  name  of 
Simon  the  Solicitor.  Still,  it  was  horrible,  and 
he  felt  as  though  Pugeot  were  trying  to  carry 
him  pick-a-back  across  an  utterly  impossible 
bridge. 

246 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST 

He  guessed  now  why  this  had  been  sprung  on 
him.  They  knew  that  as  a  lawyer  he  would 
never  have  agreed  to  such  a  statement. 

Then  Copper,  hoisting  himself  into  the  wit- 
ness-stand, hitching  his  belt  and  kissing  the 
Testament,  began: 

"  I  swear  before  Almighty  Gawd  that  the 
evidence  I  shall  give  shall  be  the  truth,  the 
whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  so  help 
me  Gawd,  Amen  on  the  evening  of  the  i6th 
pursuin'  my  beat  by  Porter's  Meadows  I  see 
defendant  in  the  company  of  Horn " 

"What  were  they  doing?"  asked  old  Mr. 
Teal,  who  was  busily  taking  notes  just  like  any 
real  judge. 

"  Walkin'  towards  the  river,  sir." 

"  In  which  direction?" 

"  Up  stream,  sir." 

"  Go  on." 

Copper  went  on. 

"  Crossin'  the  meadows,  they  kept  to  the 
river,  me  after  them " 

"  How  far  behind?"  asked  Major  Partridge- 
Cooper. 

*'  Half  a  field's  length,  sir,  till  they  reached 
the  bend  of  the  stream  beyond  which  the  pris- 
oner Horn  began  to  set  his  night  lines,  assisted 
by  the  prisoner  Puttigraw.  *  Hullo,'  says  I,  and 
247 


.   THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

Horn    bolted,    and   I    closed   with   the    other 
one." 

"  Did  he  make  resistance?" 

"  No,  sir.  I  walked  him  up  to  my  house 
quite  quiet." 

"That  all?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

**  You  can  stand  down." 

The  prisoners  had  pleaded  guilty  and  there 
was  no  other  evidence.  Simon  began  to  see 
light.  He  could  perceive  at  once  that  it  would 
be  a  question  of  a  fine,  that  the  magistrates  and 
Press  had  swallowed  him  as  specified  by  Pugeot, 
that  his  name  was  saved.  But  he  reckoned 
without  Pugeot. 

Pugeot  had  done  everything  in  life  except  act 
as  an  advocate,  and  he  was  determined  not  to  let 
the  chance  escape.  Several  brandies-and-sodas 
at  the  hotel  had  not  lessened  his  enthusiasm  for 
Publicity,  and  he  rose. 

"  Mr  Chairman  and  Justices,"  said  Pugeot. 
"  I  would  like  to  say  a  few  words  on  behalf  of 
my  friend,  the  prisoner,  whom  I  have  known  for 
many  years  and  who  now  finds  himself  in  this 
unfortunate  position  through  no  fault  of  his 
own." 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out?"  asked  Colonel 
Grouse. 

248 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST 

"  I  beg  your  pardon?"  said  Pugeot,  checked 
in  his  eloquence.  "  Oh  yes,  I  see  what  you 
mean.  Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  as  a  matter  of 
fact — well,  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it, 
leaving  aside  the  fact  that  he  is  the  last  man  to 
do  a  thing  of  this  sort,  he  has  had  money 
troubles  in  France." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  make  out  a  case  of  non 
compos  mentis  f ''  asked  old  Mr.  Teal.  "  There 
is  no  medical  evidence  adduced." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Pugeot;  "he's  as 
right  as  I  am,  only  he  has  had  worries."  Then, 
confidentially,  and  speaking  to  the  Bench  as 
fellow-men:  "  If  you  will  make  it  a  question  of 
a  fine,  I  will  guarantee  everything  will  be  all 
right — and  besides  " — a  brilliant  thought — 
"  his  wife  will  look  after  him." 

"Is  his  wife  present?"  asked  Colonel 
Grouse. 

"  That  is  the  lady,  I  believe,"  said  Colonel 
Salmon,  looking  in  the  direction  of  the  Ros- 
signols,  whom  he  dimly  remembered  having 
seen  at  the  Squire  Simpson's  with  Simon. 

Pugeot,  cornered,  turned  round  and  looked  at 
the  blushing  Madame  Rossignol. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  without  turning  a  hair,  "  that 
is  the  lady." 

Then  the  recollection  struck  him  with  a  thud 
249 


THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  HIMSELF 

that  he  had  introduced  the  Rosslgnols  as  Ros- 
signols  to  the  Squire  Simpson's  and  that  they 
were  registered  at  the  hotel  as  Rossignols.  He 
felt  as  though  he  were  In  a  skidding  car,  but 
nothing  happened,  no  accusing  voice  rose  to 
give  him  the  lie,  and  the  Bench  retired  to  con- 
sider its  sentence,  which  was  one  guinea  fine  for 
Siglsmond  and  a  month  for  Horn. 

"  YouVe  married  them,'*  said  Julia,  as  they 
walked  back  to  the  hotel,  leaving  the  others  to 
follow.  "  I  never  meant  you  to  say  that.  But 
perhaps  It's  for  the  best;  she's  a  good  woman 
and  will  look  after  him,  and  he'll  have  to  finish 
the  business,  won't  he  ?  " 

"  Rather,  and  a  jolly  good  job !  "  said  Pugeot. 
**  Now  I've  got  to  bribe  the  hotel  man  and  stuff 
old  Simpson  with  the  hard  facts.  Never  had 
such  fun  In  my  life.  I  say,  old  thing,  where  do 
you  hang  out  In  London?  " 

Julia  gave  him  her  address. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  end  of  Pugeot 
as  a  bachelor — also  of  Simon,  who  never  would 
have  been  brought  up  to  the  scratch  but  for 
Pugeot's  speech — also  of  Mr.  Ravenshaw,  who 
never  in  his  wildest  dreams  could  have  foreseen 
his  marriage  to  Simon's  step-daughter  a  week 
after  Simon's  marriage  to  her  mother. 
250 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST 

Mudd  alone  remains  unmarried  out  of  all 
these  people,  for  the  simple  and  efficient  reasoii 
that  there  is  no  one  to  marry  him  to.  He  lives 
with  the  Pettlgrews  In  Charles  Street,  and  his 
only  trouble  In  life  Is  dread  of  another  outbreak 
on  the  part  of  Simon.  This  has  not  occurred 
yet — will  never  occur,  If  there  Is  any  truth  in 
the  dictum  of  Oppenshaw  that  marriage  is  the 
only  cure  for  the  delusions  of  youth. 


THE  EN5 


251] 


0 


,J7 


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14  DAY  USE 

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